


one man job

by grab_n_growl



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Gore, Mild Language, NSFW, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise, Self Confidence Issues, Smut, Soft sex, Spoilers, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, arthur is anxious and charles loves him, no TB, spoilers for chapter 3, spoilers for chapter 4, they both love eachother honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grab_n_growl/pseuds/grab_n_growl
Summary: I feel this is something that means more to me than you.Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. But the words couldn't come up- he couldn't get them out of his throat. Standing there in the evening sweat of the muggy swamps surrounding Shady Belle, Charles looked both too at-ease and too uncomfortable. There was something pressing in those dark eyes, sunlight a filter off the warmth of black honey. Soulful eyes, visage usually drawn a scowling furrow over them. But their entirety made Arthur's fingers itch at the tips, grasping and twitching at empty air in desire for a piece of paper and a pencil to sketch it. To capture the likeness of the huntsman before him, in all that he was.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 _A one man job, he'd said._  
  
It was meant in comfort, perhaps. The pour of his words over his tongue and teeth, perhaps more syllables than he'd spoken in weeks- months. All in a string that sounded just a little too fast, a little too quick, to be a simple pass of knowledge to the other. It was as though he'd seen something, _known something_ , that Arthur didn't and endeavored to keep him from it. Of course, his words made sense in the long-run.  
  
_I feel this is something that means more to me than you._  
  
Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. But the words couldn't come up- he couldn't get them out of his throat. Standing there in the evening sweat of the muggy swamps surrounding Shady Belle, Charles looked both too at-ease and too uncomfortable. There was something _pressing_ in those dark eyes, sunlight a filter off the warmth of black honey. Soulful eyes, visage usually drawn a scowling furrow over them. But their entirety made Arthur's fingers _itch_ at the tips, grasping and twitching at empty air in desire for a piece of paper and a pencil to sketch it. To capture the likeness of the huntsman before him, in all that he was.  
  
An impossible feat, honestly. How many times had Arthur tried before? To gather the cinch of John's ragged scores of scars into one place that looked _realistic enough._ To trace the glint of Hosea's narrow eyes when he was thinking hard, the broad of the apple of Lenny's cheeks when he smiled. To sketch the drawn, foreboding slope of Javier's face, Dutch's strong jaw and charismatic countenance. To shade in Mary Beth's sweet-eyed youth, Tilly's smooth skin and knowing eyes. To carve Karen's teasing lips, Abigail's hair framing her face _just so._ Everyone in the gang he attempted to try, to meet his own lofty goals. He should know better than to have them, really. Too _dumb_. All brawn, no brains, as everyone kept seeing fit to  _remind him._ Ugly, sad, scarred fool who was only getting older and angrier and more and more removed from being considered "pleasant company"- if he'd ever been at all. He knew the answer to that: he'd never been. So maybe that was why he spent so much time _looking into others._ To see all the things he wasn't. It was something Arthur tended to ruminate on when he sketched- when he had to _pay attention_ to what made someone who they were. How he could see, just a glimpse, of what lay beneath the surface.  
  
He'd done Sean perfectly, once. Maybe it was because he was just so memorable. The shining copper-ginger of his hair that accentuated every strand in detail amass. The stubble of his jaw unable to hide the boyish sharpness, just turning into something of a surprisingly elegant manhood. The frame of his eyelashes around eyes so wide and bright it reminded him of a squirrel too curious and too stupid to know to get out of the way of an oncoming wagon's wheels. Or maybe it was what lay beneath that made his image stick so well with Arthur. The curl of his jests and jokes- all terrible- his voice lilting in laughter and humor as warm as a swig of whiskey. The day after he, Charles, and Javier- and the oh-so- _opportunistic_ Trelawny- had saved the stupid Irish bastard from death, Arthur had curled up to simply... _draw him_. It'd started as a sketch, something simple, but then it began to grow and expand as more and more images of Sean had come to mind. It was a perfect picture, a perfect likelihood. One of his best, if Arthur dared to venture that anything he could create could ever even lick the ground of what was considered _good._  
  
It still remained in his journal now, months after a bullet had ripped a hole right through his annoying little brother, taking away in a single burst all the fiery energy the man had been.  
  
Arthur didn't look at that page anymore. If he ever had to recall something, he'd skip over the page- marked with a little notch in the right upper hand corner. A _warning_ to himself. He couldn't bear to rip it out, but he didn't dare once more look upon the face held there.  
  
But now, he was feeling the itch again. The _need._ The _want._ To paint Charles' lines, etched deep in some places- around his eyes where they've sharpened one too many times, on the trail of prey or in challenge of a predator. The cut in one of his eyebrows, nicking the thin dark of it, and the bareness of the wrinkles in his forehead. The scar that dragged across the ashen stubble on the right side of his face, spiderwebbing up the edge of his jaw and into the weathered skin of his cheek. His hair is dark, _so dark,_ curled in ebony waves and swept from his face whether by length alone or when he decides to tie it back. And his eyes... his eyes. They always seemed to know Arthur, more than he knows himself. Looked into him, peeled back all the rugged and rough layers of cold and anxiety-riddled defense to see into him.  
  
_Whatever_ that was, he didn't know. He didn't know what Charles saw- wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the idea of seeing what was under the layers of grease and grim that was _him_ was terrifying.  
  
He didn't think there'd be anything there at all, but Charles always seemed to think differently. Whatever he saw had yet to chase him away. Arthur wasn't sure if that meant the other man was incredibly stupid, or far more forgiving and insightful than anyone else he'd ever met. The hunter had helped him so many times, had done so much for him. Kept him sane up in the frigid coldness of the mountains they'd been stuck in, brushing any shows of concern the gruff man had given towards the burn bloomed upon his hand. The iron had been hot, too hot, when the gunfire began and spattered the metal of the boat. _Stupid mistake,_ Charles had said, when the rickety thing had near tipped over and he'd grappled with the flank of it to steady himself, feeling bright-molten pain singe into his palm. Regardless of his own pain, Charles had still taken Arthur out to hunt- and in doing so hinted at the fact that the cowboy was about the only one he trusted to be competent enough to go out with.  
  
Trusted him enough to invite him out hunting again- for bison, that time.  
  
To be bestowed with Charles' stories, the little that he remembered, of his family and the culture he'd lost seemed something sacred in of itself. And to see him, enlarged and _enflamed_ , silhouetted in the veil of his hair like personified bringer of death, standing righteous and furious at the hill before the cowering poachers. Sprayed in blood, a copper rain in the air as it drizzled across his face as he fired his shotgun into one, teeth pulled back into a vicious snarl and tongue lashing even fiercer-  
  
_It's that business of mine!_  
  
Arthur had never seen him like that, not before. And something about the snark to the huntsman's tone when Arthur let the remaining poacher go sounded both incensed and slowly coming to awareness of his own doings. Of his _anger._ Fleeing, it seemed, in the words he almost spit in Arthur's direction- _I've seen enough of this._ And then he was gone, leaving only the slick smell of blood in the air and thin ice behind. Arthur didn't blame him for that. He would've reacted the same, most likely. He _had_ reacted that way before, to things. Gotten too angry, red filling his vision as he beat, cut, _killed_ his way into getting what he wanted from others. It happened time and time again and if Charles was willing to keep coming back to him despite that, then he owed it to the other to accept his views.  
  
Most of them.  
  
_Charles is a good man. He doesn't have to think to be good._  
  
That was the truth of it all. Arthur was absolutely prepared to leave that woman and her children standing there in the mud and rain, alone and abandoned in the gutter. He had no inclination to help them, no need to. They needed this land for _their people_. And, as Dutch had taught him many times over- it was either  _us_  or _them._ Might as well be them. But Charles had remained, stayed rooted to the spot even as Arthur's hackles had raised and tail lashed irritably when he asked _where did they take him._ It wasn't their business! That was the truth! They had no _time_ to stick around rescuing naive travelers. But the expression that Charles turned on him was unyielding and the point of his finger may as well have held Arthur at knifepoint, spitting back a possible truth about himself that he didn't want to admit-  
  
_You ain't as tough an' dense as all that._  
  
Everyone told him he was stupid, dull, block-headed. Only good as Dutch's main enforcer and nothing else- even Hosea had leveled many a jab at him, kept him in his corner of deprecating nights and avoidance of meeting his own eyes in a mirror. But Charles? Charles took all those words and crushed them like he was breaking a log over his knee, shattering splinters everywhere. It would take more than that to remedy the _anxieties,_ to bring that beneath-the-ocean-level self-confidence above the surface of the water, but it was a start. And it set Charles apart from everyone else Arthur knew. He had not shied away from speaking his mind of how he _really_ thought of Arthur. And, _God,_ he-  
  
He didn't know. For someone who was consistently told that he wasn't able to have a single rational thought, he certainly was doing a lot of _thinking_ recently.  
  
About a lot of things.  
  
And now, he had this to face as well. Charles before him, seemingly awaiting _permission_ , somehow. For Arthur to turn an approving wave of hand upon him and relieve him to his mission, his _goal._ Once again out of the kindness of his own heart. To help some of the boys from Eagle Flies' tribe, captured and forced into reform school. A vile practice, one Arthur found his nose wrinkling in disgust over. What was the point of all that? He didn't understand it, he didn't see how it would ever be justifiable. Then again, there were a lot of things Dutch and the gang had justified over the years... robberies, thieveries, murders. Maybe he wasn't one to be able to judge- scratch that, he absolutely _was not_ \- but his thoughts remained. And he couldn't tell whether they came from himself, on their own, or if the magnificent man before him had helped to foster them-  
  
_Magnificent?_  
  
Not thoughts to be confronting right now. No, the right thing to do would be to offer to help. Because he hadn't that time, with the Germans. So... he did. And Charles near bowled him over in the speed of his response, like he was rushing to cover something, and spoke of its _meaning._ And when Arthur attempted to give a half-hearted continuation, a promise that if he _ever did_ need someone, he would be there- he tripped. Like he often did in things like this, when something was stuck in his chest and he just couldn't quite shimmy it out. A halting sentence like he was thinking of it in the exact moment the words rolled off his tongue- so, _not thinking, actually-_  
  
_Well, you've saved my hide often enough, brother._  
  
Charles' answering hum did not play into his knowledge of Arthur's fumble, his _attempt._ A simple acknowledgement. Understanding. Go at night, in and out. That was the plan that the huntsman spoke of, explaining himself more than he needed to. He didn't need to- _ever,_ really. Because Arthur understood, he didn't need to hear it. And when he gave his blessing, the tense slope of Charles' muscled shoulders softened and dropped as though in relief. Something lit up in his gaze at that moment, just for a brief second, and it made something deep in Arthur's chest flutter minutely. Looking at him like he was the Great Gatekeeper of camp, like having his word to leave was something precious to have. Maybe, to some, it was. To have his approval was a mark of being well-liked, well-stationed, in the gang. He was sure some thought of it like that.  
  
Arthur? Imagined it didn't matter all that much because _none_ of them were "well-stationed" right now. And Dutch's talk... was just that. Talk.   
  
Kieran was _dead_. They'd just gotten Jack back, rounded up all around the fires' dancing flames, enveloped in Javier's playful fingers and excited singing. It felt like family. And then things started going wrong again, down the same path they'd been going down. They'd _chosen_ to go down. Their luck had turned and there was no going back now, and the sight of the headless body gently rolled into camp as the calm before the storm of O'Driscolls swarming into camp and damn near blowed them all to smithereens was _prime example_ of that fact. Whether Dutch wanted to face it or not. And his own worries... _worried_ him. Arthur shouldn't be feeling this way, he knew. He'd never doubt Dutch, no, he couldn't. Not the man who had saved him, the man who had raised him far better than his blood father, the man he'd been flanking for past 20 years. But he was still concerned.  
  
And Charles? Always seemed to have Arthur's back in it all. He didn't talk much of his own views on Dutch or the gang, as though he'd never expected to remain this long with them. But there was something about him, in the way he narrowed his eyes when their red-vested leader would proclaim some new plan. In the way he didn't jump to assist, but moved languidly, like a man resigned to a fate he hadn't fought hard enough against to escape. He looked like _Arthur._ And maybe that's what settled in the rugged cowboy, that _thought._ That _vision._ It made him trust Charles- a rare occurrence. Knew the huntsman was self-sufficient, was intelligent and strong and... _beautiful._ Arthur knew that.  
  
But he felt that familiar bile of worry rising in his throat that had plagued him frequently of late as days passed and Charles had yet to return to them.  
  
The gang was far too busy with their own pains to honestly, truly, look for the missing man. Knowing Charles, he likely hadn't told anyone else but Arthur as to where he was going. That in itself was both in someway relieving, but also anxiety-inducing. It made him _think_ of when the O'Driscolls had captured him and _no one had come looking for him._ When he'd stumbled back into camp at Clemens Point, bruised and bloodied, barely holding on to conscious, everyone seemed so... _surprised._ Like they'd thought Arthur had just been off gallivanting in the dirt of his own _choice._  
  
The very real reality that he could've died in Colm's basement and no one in camp would have been the wiser was something that kept him awake those first few nights back far more than the burning pain in his shattered shoulder. So now when Charles, one of their best, most competent men did not come back after an entire week and a half of being absent on what he'd _said_ was nothing but a _one man job_ was worrying to say the least. Arthur found himself keeping a lookout everywhere he went for any sign of the other man. When he was stuck in Saint Denis beating Professor Shiftacre in an alleyway and holding Hector Fellows over the wheel of a moving wagon for the Mayor, he thought of Charles. Wondered what the other man would think of him now, like this, in his supposed  _element_ that was savagery and intimidation.   
  
A day,  
  
_Another day,_  
  
_**Another,**_  
  
Still no Charles. It was enough Miss Grimmshaw had approached him with that knowing, squinting look to her eye as she appraised him like a mother would a son who was vehemently denying his role in painting blue on the staircase and had yet to wash the evidence off his own hands. Questioned him, of course, in that snappish and pressuring way she did- the way that frankly had been keeping this gang afloat a lot better than any of Dutch's "motivational speeches". And Arthur felt more and more frantic to find Charles. To bring him _back._ To see him. _See him again._ Arthur... Arthur wanted to see him. And in his time off he spent scouring the rolling hills and forests for any sign of where the man had last been. Wandered to what he felt was every corner of the country searching, searching, _searching._ Pulling out every tracking technique Charles himself had taught.  
  
He came up with nothing, for a while. Two weeks of silence.  
  
Until he'd wagered a stagecoach robbery coming up from Blackwater, information procured from Alden himself. A promise of good money- many guards, but cash was cash and Arthur had been doing this for years. Misled the guards into leaving the caravan for just a moment long enough for him to _dispatch_ the driver et al. left behind. Broke the lockbox and made off with a sizable wad for minimal damage and effort on his part. On his way back he saw what looked like smoke- old smoke, something that had been smoldering for a few days at least. But it drew his attention- he had nothing else to do. And, part of him, once more thought of Charles. A vision of a great buck looking up from its grazing with rapt attention like it was _looking_ for something. Someone. And it was. _He_ was.  
  
It was a strange sight. A circle of erected spikes of tree trunks, tents burnt to a crisp and crows having found a perch upon the singed remains of the logs that were just barely keeping the threadbare cloth upright. It felt as though the mere press of his boot against the grass was enough to send the whole place shivering and shattering to the ground- but aside from the easy breeze of the day procuring a few creaks, everything remained as standing as it could be. There was another building, clearly not cut from the same mold, just a little ways within. Clearly not one of the buildings meant for the _"savages"_. The sight of it, of all this, had begun to leave a sour taste on his tongue. He wasn't sure he truly wanted to find out more about the place and yet, a pair of dark eyes gently nudged him onwards. Kept him moving, up and into the ashen board, giving passing glance to the rats that squeaked indignantly at his intrusion on their hideaway. A classroom, it looked clearly to be. What had been a chalkboard was now split in two, cracked and dirty, and in bright white letters etched into the bottom left corner-  
  
**_RUN, RUN, RUN_**  
  
... _Ominous_. Not what he expected to see and his fingers immediately trailed over the comforting spine of his pistol holstered familiar on his hipbone. There wasn't much there, anything that had been was burnt to a crisp aside from a letter upon one of the desks. A little worse for wear, a layer of ash over it, but reading it procured a strange series of letters and words. All words that made sense on their own and yet had no sense together- not sentences. Spelling practice, he figured.  _English practice._ They were scrawled in the handwriting of someone who didn't know the language well, but it was just well enough to be legible. Talk of fathers gone and mothers caught in the rain, cold and alone. A morbid test, if that's what it was, and it made Arthur's teeth click in the tightening of his jaw.  
  
It must be here, _it must be._ The smokey smell had yet to leave the air- this was recent. He had to be near.  
  
And Arthur would be damned if he missed him. Not today, Charles Smith.  
  
Prowling every inch of the area, he almost missed it. The press of bootprints in the sooty black of the ground leading off into the foliage and pine trees away from the river. Not going in the direction of Shady Belle, but going somewhere like a wounded animal would have. Fleeing to a place they could have better vantage from danger. And if Charles was hurt... he imagined the man was smart enough, tactful enough, to do something like that if he needed to. And based on what had happened at remnants of the reform school and his long stretch of absence, Arthur figured something had happened to the wild, gorgeous creature. He did his best to follow the tracks, winding this way and that around trees and bushes- the path of someone who was not walking straight, but from here he couldn't tell if it was on purpose or for some other reason.  
  
It felt like hours, struggling and squinting to see in the dark shade the footprints and where they led. There were multiple, but he followed the one that wobbled the most- large prints, shifting this way and that. Shuffling steps. It broke off from the rest of the prints and struck in another direction, this one seeming more in the direction of camp. But it remained in the woods, wound about a patch of thick brambles, and was lost. _Fuck._ How was he supposed to find anything now? Arthur paced for a moment, back and forth, growling darkly in his throat in frustration. In the tilt of his head, the corner of his eye, was that-  
  
He recognized that color. _Those colors._  
  
Leaning down he picked up a tattered patch of cloth, almost so black the pattern was unrecognizable. But it was just enough. Blue with white dots. Singed on all sides, an old stain of what was clearly blood blotted over most of the fabric. He had to get moving, _he had to-_  
  
Followed the tattered threads, the splatter of blood on a patch of leaves, fresher than the shirt piece. Set his heart aflame in alarm, red beginning to seep delicately in the edges of his vision, darkened his vision into a tunnel of nothing but find, _find,_ _find._  He had to find him. And find he did, because the rustle of the wind was too quiet. It was _too quiet_ in the shuffle. Crouched low to the ground, he ran his eye over the area, so still he could feel the rush of his blood in his ears and the solid thudding of his heart in his chest. It was beating fast, _fast,_ and so fine-tuned he began to see how his body shifted _just slightly_ in place with every pulse. Scoured the treetops, looking, _searching-_  
  
**Found him.**  
  
Curled up in one of the branches, slumped over and looking wild, beaten, dirty. From this angle, Arthur couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. Could only see the dark expanse of skin stained in soot and blood, his shirt wrapped around his own abdomen, bandages bled-through wound around a bicep. His hair was an obscuring veil over his face, but he knew. Arthur knew exactly who that was,

 

 

_" Charles. "_

 

 

It's his name, breathy and whispered and sounding distant to his own ears. The body strung up does not move in the slightest as Arthur sprang from the ground, grasping some of the lower branches of the tree and beginning to long drag up the length of the trunk. Handful after handful, splinters catching on his callouses, pieces of his own skin abraded by the rough texture of the bark rasping against his frantic pawfuls. Up, _up, up,_ into the bough of the branches and leaves. His hand comes up, reaches Charles' leg, and grabs harder than he needed to, than he intended to.

There is a wild _jerk_ beneath his palm and Charles takes in a massive gasp of breath as though coming back from the dead, bruised figure jumping into action immediately. But his eyes are exhausted and blown wide when they open, bloodshot and stressed like a horse pushed far too long. There is a stagger in his breathing, ragged and raw, like it had yet to recover from being stuffed of smoky tendrils and the lap of a fire's threat. When his eyes land on Arthur, it is as though he doesn't recognize the man for a moment. And then he's _sinking,_ dropping back against the tree as every muscle in his body seems to lax, head lolling back against the tree's solid back, muttering in a choppy murmur,

 

 

" _Arthur._ "

 

 

Seeing him awake was relieving, but seeing _the rest of him?_ Concerning. He can't get a very detailed look like this, the shadows of foliage casting across their skin only shades their outlines. But if he squints he can see the telltale signs of a burn, skin startlingly pink for Charles, up on his forearm. His bicep has long since bled through its bandage, but it appears to lack any drip, so he casts aside his concern for it at the moment. Peaking into Charles' personal space where the mass of his torn shirt remains he cannot see much at all but delicately peeling away the fabric leads to a soft noise from the downed man and a glimpse of rawed, burnt skin.  _Fuck, Charles, fuck-_ he tried not to bestow his worries on the other but he snaps his teeth and groans his sympathy quietly through his teeth. Taking hold of the other's shoulders, Arthur attempts to catch his eye- finds he doesn't have to, for Charles has yet to look away from him-

 

 

" _Jesus_ , Charles. The hell happened? Let's get you down from here. "

 

 

It is a long struggle to hoist the burnt man steady enough to scale down the tree he'd climbed into, Arthur carefully maneuvering his weight all the way down, but they eventually make it without significant further fuss to the forest floor. Whistling into the air to beckon his stead, Arthur takes to holding Charles against him, taking almost all of his weight. As he tries to speak, the cowboy doesn't resist the urge to sweep his matted, soot-stained hair from his face to see him better,

 

 

" Army... wasn't happy with me... getting the boys out. Fire-bombed the place. Got the boys out... "

 

 

Despite the severity of his injuries, Charles seemed quite pleased with himself on that part. Allowing Arthur to shrug him out of the trees, the two are a strange sight to witness stumbling from the dark of the shade, but they have no time to worry about _appearances_. With all the care someone like him could muster, Arthur convinced his beautiful friend's broken body to sit still and behave itself atop his horse, gingerly climbing up behind the other to avoid significant pulling upon the burns and wounds. The ride back to Shady Belle is painful at best, constantly attempting to keep Charles' body from sliding off the horse, trying to keep him upright and awake across the tougher terrain. When they whirlwind into camp, Arthur looking wild and stained and Charles an unconscious deadweight, it garners much the same reaction that had occurred when he'd come stumbling in from escaping Colm.

 _Surprise._ Genuine surprise. Like none of them, _none of them,_  had any concerns about their gang member's whereabouts. It was damning and disgusting and when Miss Grimmshaw and Mr. Pearson dragged Charles' body off to Arthur's room under his command, he rounded on the strained faces who'd come to watch with a baring of his teeth and a _growl,_

 

 

" You're all _real helpful, aint'cha?_ I bet ya'll wouldn't notice if somebody dropped dead right in front of ya'!"

 

 

He doesn't stick around to hear what anyone says. Climbs the broken, rotten staircase like he was stumbling into a hotel after having one too many whiskey shots- but there is no pleasant warmth in him now. All he felt was the hot-cold pit in his stomach of anger and depravity, pained and sharp and disgusting. Miss Grimmshaw barricades him at the door as Abigail rounds the corner with wide eyes and a wash bin and cloth, avoiding his gaze. There is nothing he can do but _stay out_ like some loyal, pitiful dog awaiting the appearance of its master. Not a good feeling. Then again, Arthur hasn't felt many good things in a long time. He's stuck, again and again, in the mud both physically and figuratively. And as he sits outside, just able to hear Charles' cries of pain- something breaks in him because he's _never heard him like that before._

His fingers itch something terrible but this time he can't tell if it wants to feel the grit of a _pencil_ or the familiar cool of a _pistol_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Arthur obsessed over, concerned over, worried over. In the way people looked at him after talking to Charles or mentioning him. Constantly afraid that the flowers in his lungs were making themselves known in every breath he took. Worried that he was being too obvious, being too helpful. But no one said anything- and yet, the lingering feeling of anxiety remained wrapped around the scruff of his neck, uncomfortable and permeating.
> 
> Charles never seemed to notice and never seemed to mind. If anything, he made every excuse to get Arthur closer to him- like now.

The road to recovery is often a long and hard one wracked with strife and pain. As strong as Charles is, it is just the same for him. Darkness had fallen and Arthur had long since slumped on the staircase when Miss Grimmshaw's familiar waft of perfume invaded his senses, hand firm and waking on the curve of his bicep, shaking him awake. Her gaze doesn't look mournful- the huntsman has lived. There is an unpleasant twist to her mouth but she looks the same way an exasperated mother would and he for once takes comfort in her sharpness, her _sureness_ , but he sure as shit doesn't have any right now. Comforts him, in a way, with a softer tone of voice this time around,

 

" He's alright. Got some nasty burns but otherwise he's just another outlaw who will live to see another day. Don't jostle him too much. "

 

There is something in the pitch of her gaze that doesn't sit properly with him. Like there is something _else_ in her tone she's attempting to express without fully coming out with it- which is strange for her, a blunt and expressive woman who never shies away from telling her feelings. But she's gone before he can truly think about it and his thoughts had long already strayed to the man holed up in his cot. Picking himself off the floor and ignoring the screams of pain in his cracking joints protesting having slept against the banister for hours, he makes his way to his own door. 

Doesn't know what he expects to find on the other side.

Shuffles a moment before opening the door, peering in to the candlelight room. Rounds of ammo are scattered along the shelving, one such box opened and spread out on the bedside table- gunpowder use. They had to cauterize a wound, he imagined. All he can see is Abigail hunched over the cot, dabbing at the motionless dark beneath her, but she looks up when Arthur's presence makes itself known in the doorframe. Passes him a small smile, something like relief in her eye to see him- and it just makes him _uncomfortable._ Doesn't deserve it. Feels like he doesn't, but knew if he said such she'd only be moved to bark. And there can't be any barking, not right now, not when Charles is collapsed in a shirtless, bandaged heap on the rickety frame. She leaves the room on silent feet to leave just _them._

It had been a while since it had been just them.

And never since Arthur had seen him like this.

There are fresh bandages now wrapped around his midsection and passing beneath his high-waisted jeans, a new pair. His skin is cleaned now, washed, and it makes it look all the worse-for-wear. The weathered skin is dotted with bruises along his flanks as though he'd been punched or pistol-whipped, purple and yellow and green and stark even in the dim lighting. The burns along his forearms have been swathed in some kind of ointment he can smell from here, wrapped tight alongside an accompanying clean bandage around his bicep. Those dark, _dark_ eyes are hidden from him now- closed. Resting. It makes Arthur move quietly, as quiet as he possibly can, and creep towards him like he's approaching a startled stud. There is no reaction to him. The only proof of Charles' life is the rhythmic shifts of his muscled chest now free of dirt, soot, and blood.

With his hair spread against the pillow, expression lax and body boneless, Arthur's fingers _itch again._

He really was a beautiful man, in every way possible. And the realization, the _recognition_ that he felt that way was more painful than most things he'd experienced in his tragedy-studded life. It's overwhelming and souring and sickening and he has to clench his jaw to edge the ebbing pain of it away from himself.

He _doesn't have time to think about this right now._

He can't. Facing these feelings... these _wrong_ feelings, is not something he can do right now. It's not what Charles needs from him right now. So Arthur settles like faithful hound in the chair beside the cot, peering over the sleeping face of his dear friend who'd gone to such lengths out of the goodness of his own nature to save people who needed saving. Something Arthur wasn't sure he himself would be able to do. It just made his journal entry stick out all the more in his mind. Charles was a _good man_  and he didn't need to think about it to be it. Didn't need to weigh his options. Just _was._ And Arthur finds himself paling in more ways than one next to the other man. He would pity him, wouldn't he? If he said anything about the strangling vines full of blooming flowers choking his breath from him whenever Charles would around. He was a good man- so he would turn him away with that sick, _sick pity_ in his eyes and a small, sympathetic smile. Would ease him down gently and be such a _good fucking friend_ that he'd check up on Arthur later. Make sure he was okay. That they were still _friends._

 _God,_ why did he have to get himself in messes like this? Hadn't he learned his lesson from Mary? From Eliza? Apparently not, he was _just that goddamn stupid_ and _just that much of a_ _fool._  But for all its pain, he couldn't turn the feelings away. Couldn't clip the leafy tendrils. Couldn't pluck the petals off. 

It hurt.

 

" Always knew you had a heart. "

 

The voice that roused him from his thoughts was hoarse and tired but stronger than the one he'd coaxed out from the treetop. Jerking lightly in his chair he manages to meet Charles' gaze, half-lidded as though merely opening them was too much energy- yet they remained riveted on him. The stark lines in Arthur's face don't lessen, but his expression softens a touch as he leaned back, huffing some kind of laughing mutter,

 

" Aw, I knew you'd be alright. Real strong. Real brave. "

 

It's the truth and he means every word of it. It seems to settle in the bedridden man, gaze slipping shut a moment as though hearing Arthur's voice is soothing, giving a soft exhale into the air. There is a moment of pause, something _shimmering_ in the air, before Charles is blinking his eyes open again. Turns his head, brow furrowing as though he's trying to puzzle something out, and swallows thickly before speaking and watching Arthur reach for water for him from the bedside table,

 

" What were you doin' out there? "

 

Arthur tries not to choke- himself or Charles- when he coaxed a hand through the long, tangled strands of the man's hair and beneath his skull, cradling firmly as he gently brings the other up to a better position. Feels Charles wince in his arms, skin pulling tender, but there is no sound of ripping or look of blood renewed so Arthur imagines he's in the clear for now. As he tilts the cup to the other's lips he speaks quietly,

 

" Was robbin' a coach. Found that reform school on my way back. Thought you mighta' been around. "

 

There is a stretch of quiet as Charles sips gingerly and Arthur sees no reason to speak more- for fear of not having anything to say, or having _too much_ to say. It continues even when the injured man is done, easing the cup away from his lips and allowing himself to be relaxed back onto the cot's surface. Closes his eyes, listens to Arthur shift and shuffle around in place. Seems to be gathering his thoughts, picking through them one-by-one. How he always did that... it was a measure of his honesty. His sincerity as a person, Arthur thought. That he never spoke without meaning. Never said something unless it needed to be said, or he was pushed into the rare glimmer of him that was the _furious_ Charles. The Charles that had been on the plains the day they'd hunted bison,

 

" ... I see. "

 

Is all that's said for a long time and Arthur eventually figures the man has gone back to sleep. But Charles' eyes wink open again, staring up at the cracked and old ceiling for a moment before turning his gaze upon the man at his flank. There is something unreadable in those dark eyes and Arthur can't quite place it, but he can't escape from it either. Pinned to the spot so to speak. The burnt man speaks softly but clearly, prompting delicately,

 

" How did it go? "

 

He was... asking about the _robbery?_ Of all the things, this is what he picks? Well, Arthur isn't one for conversation- neither of them are- but... alright. If that's what he wanted, that's what he would get. Picking at the skin around his nails to have something to focus on, to escape the piercing eyes on him, he shrugged shallowly and eased a sigh,

 

" Ohh, you know, standard bloodshed and lock-box smashin' before takin' off. The regular order. "

 

He's not quite sure why he feels so uncomfortable, why he phrased things the way he did. But it seems to amuse Charles- looking up, he sees that the other is smiling softly at him and the vision catches him off-guard. Clearing his throat quietly, he looks away immediately and tenses when he can see from his peripheral vision that Charles has not. What is going on? He's making it obvious, isn't it. Arthur, the big oaf, is _fucking up again._ Everything feels tangled in his chest, in his head, and he is once again lost in what to do here. He's not usually the one at the bedside waiting for someone to wake up, aside from those few times when John was young and scared and needed someone with him at times. But that was _different_. This was... also different, but in a... _different way._ He's lost in thought again, hardly aware of what's around him, when he _feels it._ Jerks, looks down-

Charles has moved his arm, has reached out- his hand now laid atop Arthur's, pausing the picking ritual, honestly pausing Arthur's _heart_ at this point. His gaze is searching, something pressuring and knowing like when he'd first set off on his mission to assist. When he speaks, it's stronger this time,

 

" Hey, you alright, Arthur? You look real tired. All the time. "

 

It's a complicated story, one Arthur is partly desperate to get off his tongue, and partly desperate to keep locked and hidden away inside himself. Chewing on his tongue for a moment, he remains frozen in time, unable to look away from Charles' eyes and unable to do anything but blink stupidly. When he manages to find his voice it sounds far away, distant to himself,

 

" Nah, but I'll be alright. "

 

It's partly the truth. About as much of the truth he can bring himself to say now. Charles stares at him for a long moment, as though puzzling him out, and it's not the first time he's felt the picking-apart gaze on him. Except this time he _fears it_. Knows that the other is seeing inside him, past the prickly burrs and stupid brute exterior and into what was underneath. The _ugly_ truth of whoever he was. Doesn't know what Charles sees, but knows he sees something in the way he inhales quietly, head turned to look up at the ceiling again. He doesn't remove his hand. If anything, his grip _tightens,_ and he closes his eyes and murmurs quietly,

 

" Come here. "

 

_Where?_ Arthur is about to ask when the other man turns to look at him again- and the dark abyss of his gaze just swallows him whole and he can't fight it. Can't fight it when Charles uses his other hand to lightly pat the space beside him on the small cot, watching him expectantly and booking no arguments. And Arthur is moving even as he whispers a fight, weak and beaten,

 

" Charles, this ain't- this cot ain't even big enough for me alone. You're hurt- "

 

Fuck, he was already in bed with him. Curled up on his side, careful to avoid jostling Charles at all costs. Damn near falling off the bed, perched precariously on the edge and feels his hip on the hard edge, the line of his flank balanced on the metal line between old mattress and open air. But an arm comes up and around him and despite his protests- despite the injuries- Charles is still quite strong and quite stubborn. Pulls Arthur into him, onto his chest, and they both _just manage_ to fit together. A startlingly comforting meeting of puzzle pieces- fuck, how did they _fit so well together?_ They stay like that, for a long time, and Arthur isn't aware he's fallen asleep despite the discomfort, for the feeling of Charles' uninjured fingers rubbing circles into his scalp and the feel of his warm skin pressed directly against him had far since permeated all his senses. He was gone before he was even aware of it.

 

...

" Can you help with my hair? "

 

It's a quiet question, spoken softly, as things usually are with Charles. He's perched up in Arthur's bed, sitting up against the wall and staring at the man in front of him leaned over the map at the table in the room. Picking through some stagecoach route, he'd said. Alden was a good source of information so far and Arthur was looking to dip into the pool again now that he didn't have to worry about Charles' being two steps from death's door. It had been a week since he'd recovered the man from the wilderness, had brought him back and watched over him. A week since he'd somehow wound up wrapped in the other's embrace, waking up with a startle in the morning to Charles lightly patting him awake and smiling sheepishly, asking for help limping downstairs so he could relieve himself.

Arthur had seemed to take it upon himself to care for the injured man, bringing him Pearson's stew as soon as it was set out and didn't have a chance to catch flies and bugs in it. Helped change his bandages and smear ointments over his burns, checking for infection every day and pleased to find none had taken hold. Kept Charles updated on all the goings-on outside in camp. And, in passing nights, spoke of their own fears and concerns of the direction the gang was taking. They were together a lot more than they were apart, in a lot of ways, and there seemed a strong undercurrent of _something_ between the two.

Something Arthur obsessed over, concerned over, _worried over._ In the way people looked at him after talking to Charles or mentioning him. Constantly afraid that the flowers in his lungs were making themselves known in every breath he took. Worried that he was being too obvious, being _too helpful._ But no one said anything- and yet, the lingering feeling of anxiety remained wrapped around the scruff of his neck, uncomfortable and permeating.

Charles never seemed to notice and never seemed to mind. If anything, he made every excuse to get Arthur closer to him- like now.

 

" What? Your hair? "

 

Arthur had turned a confused stare upon the man holed up in his cot, eyeing him curiously. They'd just gotten done changing his bandages for the night, the scent of spice and heady mint in the air from the ointments they'd crushed and spread out over him. Charles gave a small gesture to the ebony veil around him falling in waves around him- just washed and dried, but tangled.

 

" Shoulder is still tender, I can't angle the brush properly. "

 

Watches as the stag shifts on his feet by the map, _weighs his options_. Waits, patiently, for all the time Arthur needs to take. And then he's moving, pushing off from the table and approaching, lightly picking the brush up off the shelves. Motions to Charles to move forward and he obeys, shuffling so his feet touch the floor and he's perched on the edge of the cot. Allows Arthur to settle in the space next to him, turns his head to allow the other to touch him.

There is something... _intimate_ about brushing the man's hair. Charles' hair is something of beauty, as is everything else about him, but to touch it. It feels like he's being given permission for something he doesn't deserve to have. Doesn't _deserve_ to have this closeness. It makes him uncomfortable, fidgets under his skin, makes the vines curl tighter in his stomach and petals move to choke him. But he does it, because he is _selfish_ , and he can't let this opportunity go.  _Any_ opportunity to touch the other. 

Depends on it like he does the very air he breathes.

The weight of the darkness in his hands feels like pure silk as he rubs through tangles with a delicacy and gentleness he reserves only for his most precious horses, humming quietly in pleasure when he succeeds in sectioning off pieces. Brushes it into tamed softness, shifting on the bed to almost look Charles in the face. They are quiet as he works- for a long while. Stretches of silence between them are frequent and comfortable, for the most part. They don't need to fill the air with aimless things. Everything they say to one another seems to hold meaning, hold _significance,_ and it's something frankly they both cling to in the stress of recent times.

It's Charles who breaks it, again,

 

" You look a little better now. "

 

His smile is soft along the line of his lips and Arthur has to force himself not to look directly at it for fear of what his unconscious might make him do. He hums quietly, nods his head and cracks one of his shoulder joints,

 

" Guess so. Things been... stressful. But I'm doin' my best. Don't want to let anybody else get hurt. "

 

Charles is staring at him again, deep and dark, and Arthur has to focus all his attention on the brush in his hand to quell the flame that kindles in his stomach. The other remains quiet a moment longer before he speaks again and there is _something different_ in his voice, something deeper, _huskier,_

 

" I think it's good now. "

 

Watches Arthur remove the brush, goes to move- and is held back by Charles' hand wrapped around his wrist. Startles a moment, holds still, looks back at the bandaged man and sucks in a breath at the _look._ Candelight dances off the weathered skin, casting attractive shadows across his face, and with his hair brushed and smooth, he looks an absolute _vision._ God, how Arthur wants to draw him, _so badly._ They stare at each other, lost in place, before Arthur's mouth is moving before his brain can catch up with it,

 

" Do you mind if I draw you sometime? "

 

The question seems to take Charles off guard a moment, but only for that moment, because then he's smiling full of teeth and warmly and _God, Arthur is burning in his skin._ Nods gently, voice slipping softer,  _trembling,_

 

" I would be honored. "

 

There is a pause before Charles is moving, slowly working the brush out of Arthur's grip. Carefully places it on the bedside table before he comes back, body fully angled towards the other, and clasped hands around his. Holds, _cradles_  Arthur's hands in his palms, fingers folded into his skin and pressing gently, as though afraid to startle him. Softly caressed the calloused skin, traces the dips and lines, before he finds purchase on Arthur's wrists and pulls the seemingly dumbfounded man forward. _Closer._ They're _so close now,_ Arthur can feel Charles' breath on his face when he speaks, voice no higher than a whisper,

 

" You stress yourself out a lot, I know you're doing your best. You always do. And it's not your fault- what happened to me, at least. And not these past few months. We've talked about this... and... I just want you to know that I appreciate you. Everything that you do. And I hope I show it to you enough, but I... have something else in mind. For you. Just for you. Us. You're welcome to push me away whenever you'd like, but... "

 

_Us?_ Arthur is still stuck on the "us" part when Charles moves forward and captures his lips in one of the sweetest kisses he's ever experienced in his life. He can't breathe, _he can't breathe,_ but it feels so damn good and he can't believe it's happening. He goes to speak, tries to, but suddenly there is stronger pressure against his mouth and then Charles' tongue is ever-so-gently teasing into his mouth. It prompts him to startle slightly, fingers curling tight around the ones around his, before he's _falling-_

They kiss for a long time, ginger of Charles' injuries, and enjoy every press of lips and tongue the other can offer. It's painfully gentle and _perfect_  and it almost has tears welling in Arthur's eyes because he isn't supposed to have this. Before he can argue he feels Charles reel back a bit, moving hardly an inch away, before he's whispering softly,

 

" Let me take care of you for once, Arthur. "

 

_Fuck,_ what is he supposed to say to that? All he can manage is a nod and then Charles is back, fingers slowly untucking his shirt from his jeans and _sinking_ into his skin. He makes a muffled noise- there's a tongue in his mouth again- and presses closer. _Allows it._ Because God it feels so, so good and it's almost too much for him to handle when Charles' hands are shuffling his suspenders off his shoulders, buttons popping off faster than he's ever seen the man do. It's full of a feverish _want_ and suddenly the fingers on his skin are harder, rougher, and it coaxes a soft whining noise in the back of his throat. Charles echoed it back with a gentle smile pressed against his throat, beginning to teeth at the skin of his throat as Arthur lightly dug his nails into the man's back. Feels the body against his _shudder_ deeply, gasps tearing into his ear, and suddenly they're moving.

Charles is rocking back, muscling Arthur into his lap, and lays flat against the cot. Pressed together like this... seeing the man beneath him, lips spit-slicked and parted, brushed hair now jostled and eyes peering at him like he's the most beautiful thing in the world... it does something to Arthur. Ignites the flames further in his stomach into a vicious wildfire, setting the vines and petals aflame with passion and suddenly they'd digging into eachother. Kiss after kiss, bites sweet into their skin. It feels _so good_  and suddenly Charles has a hand wound in his hair, pulls back, and lets himself sink his teeth into Arthur's skin. Gasps alongside the broken moan the other man huffs out, squirming in embarrassment, and there is a brief moment of pause-

They both groan, gasp softly, when one of Arthur's shifts presses them intimately together through the thin material of their jeans. Suspended for a moment, breathing into each other's mouths, before suddenly Charles is hauling him back in and there are fingers burning a trail down his skin and then-

Arthur can't get away when Charles' hand presses coaxingly against his erection through his clothes, rubbing back and forth in a way that is _far_ too stimulating than he's prepared for at the moment. But he's already losing himself in it and bats the hand away, pulls away to look into the warm gaze beneath him, and shifts again.

Presses _down,_ watches as Charles' eyes close and he murmurs a moan at the contact-

 _Fuck,_ they're both _so hard_  and the rubbing is only serving to make it worse. Fans the flames higher and higher between them until they're both sweating and panting and desperate and Charles shoves his hands into Arthur's jeans and grabs his ass _hard_ and pulls him down _hard,_ strong thighs tensing and pushing _up-_

 

" God _, God, Charles, I- "_

 

He sounds so wrecked already but it only seems to fuel Charles more, teeth leaving bite marks into Arthur's throat and chest, breathing heavy against his skin. Shifts up, _up, again and again and again and Arthur can't handle it anymore._ Pulls back and runs his palms down the length of Charles' body, careful of his bandages, and nips into his chest, sucks softly at his nipples and relishes in the way the man throws his head back and moans softly into the air. Goes down, _down,_ and his hand is dipping into the other's jeans and _he feels it-_

Arthur has actually never done this with a man before. Hadn't ever considered it before Charles. Charles... was everything for him now,

 

" It's okay, Arthur. "

 

Charles sounds just as blown away, voice hoarse and rasping against his chest, leaning up to teeth into his skin and lavish his tongue over his skin. It's all too much, _too much_ , and he once more is confronted with the idea that he _doesn't deserve this-_ but Charles doesn't let him get away with it. Dark hands map his skin, hardly pausing as he lightly pushes and Arthur is weakly shoved _back_ to the end of the cot. Staring at each other in the warm glow of vermillion light, panting and sweat-slicked and both looking utterly _delicious.  _God damn, they're both so far lost into one another that neither could even consider moving, consider _stopping._ But Arthur feels the need, the _pressure_ , to ask anyway,

 

" Charles... is this okay? You're sure that you want... me? "

 

The man lurches forward again, clambering into Arthur's space with a fantastic speed considering his still-healing burns and bruises. In one swift movement he's hooked his fingers into the man's jeans, tugging insistently until the broad stag has nothing to do but lean up and let him take them off. He's been naked in front of Charles before. Been naked in front of most of the gang members- it was the way of their living. Privacy was a luxury most didn't have and something most learned to live without. He happened to be _lucky_ to have a room in Shady Belle, however thin the walls were. It was something- and that _something_ allowed them to be like  _this.  _There are hands grabbing his, guiding him back to the dark expanse of bandaged skin, and it takes a moment for him to click to the fact that Charles is asking he undress him the rest of the way. His voice is a gentle, lilting murmur in his ear,

 

" Yes, Arthur. I just want you and only you. Always. "

 

The sincerity, the _rawness_ , in the words sends a spear of hot-cold into Arthur's chest, pushes him back into action. His skin is on fire, smoke pouring from his mouth as it opens and _yields_ to the other, pressing against one another as he manages to work Charles' jeans off and toss them unceremoniously to the floor. No time to consider where they fell- he had much more important things to worry about. 

Careful, _careful._

Gingerly, he took a delicate perch, thighs bracketing Charles' flanks and resting most of his weight on his hands and knees, looming over the other man with an expression of lust and _worry._ Worry for the stress something like this was putting on the other's body. He wasn't _healed._ For Christ's sake, they should at least wait until _later-_

In the expanse of having anxieties fill his head, the other had gotten busy through the fog of their flames and affections. Resting flat against the cot again, Charles had wrapped a hand, steady and strong and _confident_ around Arthur's cock, swallowing the broken growl he makes and _strokes._

It's like pouring molten metal into his veins, burning him from the inside out, the outside in.

He hasn't felt this way in _years._

It's been _years_ since this heady and warm feeling had a place in his stomach, in his heart. But looking at Charles beneath him, looking utterly devoted and fuzzy with _need, with want, all for him... _It's overwhelming in all the best ways. It's everything he wants. _Charles_ is everything he wants and he- he isn't sure he can fully express it, but he wants to _try-_

There is no time to adjust for the sensation of the man beneath him wrapping his free hand around his ass, pulling him down, and _pushing up._ In a single rock, Arthur is pressed hard against the other, cocks rubbing together in a deep, slow, heady pattern that had them both writhing. Growling in the back of his throat, he watches as Charles' wraps a hand around them both and continues the steady throbs of his hips _up_ , head thrown back and eyes open just enough to watch Arthur on top of him. His hands shake a touch when he lifts a hand, presses against Charles' lips, and watches with absolute attention at how _easily_ he lets them slip in. Sucking gently and softly, the faint press of teeth prickling along the entirety of his skin. Words tumble from Arthur's mouth, hardly capable of holding back anymore,

 

" Charles, you deserve to be in ona' those galleries. "

 

Charles smiles so warmly around his fingers that he whimpers, shivering at the touches to his cock, the feel of a broad hand palming his ass and kneading the flesh. Removes his fingers so he can kiss him, so he can _feel him_ , and presses them chest-to-chest, lines the entirety of their bodies up and _thrusts-_

Rubs his body up and down the length of the other, feeling Charles' hand lax and let go to instead grip just shy of bruises on the muscles of his hips, keeping him close, _pressing hard-_

It's too much and not enough for them both, enveloped in one another, and Arthur has to pull back to just _breathe_ for a moment. Charles lets him go, relaxes a bit of his feverish movements into something rolling steady and slow, infuriatingly stimulating and keeping them both _sensitive, gasping,_ shivering against one another. He leans up, presses a lingering kiss to Arthur's forehead and brushes back his hair delicately for him, presses their faces together and murmurs in the space between them,

 

" _Arthur._ I want to make you feel good. Will you let me hold you? "

 

The gravity of what's being asked should feel heavy. Should feel _oppressive._ Arthur should feel disgusted, feel vile, feel _violated._ But... no. He doesn't find himself filled with any of those. Instead, he's struck with the idea of being filled with clouds, soft and misty in his stomach and chest, tickling his insides into  _pleasure._ He's nodding before he's even realizing he is, voice coming out a gravel rasp of wreckage,

 

" ... Don't gotta ask. Always a yes. But you stay down there. Not about to tear at ya' burns. "

 

There is something glimmering in Charles' eye, almost like he's about to protest that statement with something Arthur knows is going to be far too intimate for his fragile state to handle at the moment. So he seals whatever the man's about to say with his lips, _melting_ together again, and everything feels _right_ for the first time in a long time. Feels right when he jerks back, fishes into his side drawer, and gingerly pulls out a vial of oil. Luckily not gun oil- that would've been terrible. Charles reaches for it easily, draws Arthur back into a sweet flurry of kisses that has him smiling into it. 

Feels _safe_ when he's eased back a bit so the other can sit up further, softly kissing down his chest as Arthur shifts forward. Let's himself fall open, fall  _vulnerable_ to Charles' grip and gentle fingers. Lightly aware of the sound of uncapping, dimly acknowledging that the vial is being put back on the table beside them. But he snaps to full attention when stranger hands now familiar pass over his skin, trailing rivulets down his muscles and strength, and he _shivers_ at the feel of them. Reach around, shift a bit, and Arthur goes stock-still and stops _breathing_ for a moment as he feels tender, gentle fingers press against the space beneath his balls. Soft strokes against him, curling _up,_ and Charles is murmuring gentle soothing coos against his lips, easing him to relax a bit-

Bites into his lip at the same time a broad, thick finger teases inside of him. Just the tip but the _oddity,_ the _newness of it all_ just takes all his breath away.

He sweeps into regaining it, chest heaving softly, but Arthur _trusts Charles._ Trusts him more than he does a lot of people nowadays. And there is no one else- _no one-_ that he would ever let do this to him. Wasn't an option for anyone but him. And he forces himself to relax into the feeling of Charles' fingers teasing into him, loosening his muscles, preparing him with more kindness and patience than he felt he deserved. Moans brokenly when fingers wrap around his cock again, when the other man's hips start shifting again, and those fingers press _just right-  
_  
Throws his head back, lets lips trail down the cartilage of his throat, feeling the shuddering and shaking puffs of breath against his skin.

Looks down to see Charles with his brows drawn, mouth ajar and panting softly, swollen lips and tousled hair and he looks _so fucking good_  and just a touch _nervous._ Arthur finds it so terribly endearing, leaning forward and using what extent of intimacy he has left in his heart to give to gently kiss the other's eyes closed for a moment. Rocking back and forth, they both lose themselves in each other, and Arthur feels the need to _soothe_ , to _comfort,_ because that's what he does. Makes sure everyone in camp is good, checks in on them all as often as he can. Charles is different but also the same-

 

" Charles, 'm good, 'm good. I want ya'. "

 

It earns him a low moan, one so deep he can feel it vibrate in the ribcage Arthur was tracing in fervored, passionate circles and scraps of nails. Egging the other on again and again and it seems Charles too is at the end of his rope. Falls back against the cot again, bracing Arthur on his thighs and reaches back with his good arm to grab the vial again. Arthur sucks bruises into his throat as Charles' slicks himself up, the sound of it making the other's ears twitch and run with a red flush-

Damn, he can only hope they both can stay quiet. The gang is a bunch of nosy sons a' bitches.

The thought makes him bare his teeth in scorn, leaning back and balancing on his strong thighs, feels the muscles in Charles' legs ripple in response to his weight. Relishes in the arch of the other's abdomen when he drags his fingers down the expanse, still careful of the bandages wrapped around in careful bounds. And then he takes a deep breath- _shivers_ , when he feels the bluntness of something he damn well knows isn't fingers pressing against him. _Waiting._

_A beat-_

**Two-**

And then Arthur is pushing down, letting Charles hold his hips steady as he _sinks- fuck-_ _god-_

The feeling is indescribable and yet, forever the artist in his own right, Arthur is hard-pressed to try to find the words in his scrambled brain, his limited vocabulary with stolen breath. He can't manage any words, _nothing_ but a streams of embarrassing whines that only seem to imprint themselves like physical marks into Charles' skin like the burns lining his arms. Said man exhaled slowly through his mouth, as though to control himself, and when Arthur takes him all the way his legs spasm and his chin drops to his chest, face pinched and _growling through his teeth-_

Well shit, that was a damn good look on him.

Shifting gingerly, Arthur attempted to get a feel for the whole situation and all he felt was the flames, the _fire, lapping up and around him._ It's everywhere. In his skin, in his organs, in every breath he managed to strangle into his lungs, in every whimpering shiver he gave. Feels like every exhale he's pouring thick smoke into the air, his heart a furnace working far too hard, lungs only fanning the wildfire into higher and _higher heights-_

 

" Slow- _unh-_ slow, Arthur. Take it slow. "

 

To hear Charles utterly _breathless_ was an immense relief, to say the least. Looking down through the heady, heavy feeling of his own lids, he can see the man beneath him looking up at him with a gaze that could only be described as _reverent._ Like Arthur was everything he'd ever wanted and ever _needed._ It's everywhere, all over his face, and it makes the cowboy grin savagely and _press down hard-_

Just to hear the choked gasp the other man gave, abdomen tensing and twitching, as his legs clench beneath his weight and _press right back up-_

It's a settled, grinding rhythm for them both and it's _so fucking hot._ Charles' hands are everywhere, tracing patterns into his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles well-worked from the life he's lived. Gently thumbing the scars littering his body from all manner of run-ins and mistakes. Fingers alternating between soft touches and hard presses, just shy of _bruising,_ and something in Arthur thrives on the _thrill_ of it. It makes him jerk into a heavier, headier rhythm, just to watch Charles squirm beneath his, watch his sweat-slick chest _heave_ with gasps and sighs. Dark eyes flutter open and close, but they never once leave Arthur's body a beautiful angel atop him-

It turns hard, _it turns hard-_

Arthur is working every muscle he has, slamming down hard enough he's certain everyone can hear it- the cot is creaking _loudly_ and his voice is groaning and growling as quietly as he can. But even that doesn't mask in the slightest what they're doing, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, obscene _slickness_ a rhythm in the air. But they're so far gone that it doesn't matter because it feels _so fucking good, and then-_

 _Oh God,_ **fuck-**

Charles gathers his legs beneath Arthur, presses him up into his hands and holds him steady, and _fucks up into him._ It punches a broken moan out of his throat, only able to grasp and hang on to the other's ribcage as he throws every bit of his weight into his thrusts. Hard, _hard,_ inside him and he's slamming into all the best spots that Arthur didn't even think he had. It was so much, overwhelming, and the burning flowers are absolutely _choking him,_ spewing smoke from his lips with every moan. Charles has his eyes narrowed now, his teeth glinting in his open-mawed panting, a deep and seductive look in those dark eyes that he'd never seen before. It devours him in every way, every sense, and Arthur is powerless against it. He leans his head back and speaks through his open-mouthed smile, pleasure and joy making his voice shiver and shudder, but he compensates with _low growls-_

 

" Arthur, _that's it._ Fuck your stress out on me- _ride me, cowboy-_ _ **use me**. _"

 

The spill of words is almost too much for Arthur, fingers curling into claws and dragging down Charles' chest just to watch him arch desperately into the touch, chasing every touch the man gave him. Suddenly he's pressing down on Arthur's hips, keeping him still and dragging his thrusts to a _pause,_ buried to the hilt. The two growl into each other's mouths, teeth bared for a moment before they drag each other into an undercurrent of passion in the waves of their kisses. Keeping them together, the man coaxes Arthur up so he can shuffle to the edge of the cot, feet pressed to the floor and gathering himself from the cot. Pressed chest-to-chest, upright and feeling every twitch, every _breath_ of the other, soaking into each other until there is nothing but _just them._

Charles starts thrusting up again and Arthur moves to meet him, a primal dance of tongues and teeth and muscle and it's _so goddamn good._ Every push pressed them closer and closer, higher and higher, and the two are caught in a twirling of tongues and lips that neither has the concentration to totally keep up with. Even so, it just pulls more moans from both, groans and _growls and it's too much, too good-  
_  
Arthur's legs begin to strain in protest and he winces,  _damned if he didn't keep going-_ but Charles wraps arms around him and takes over most of the haul of strength and energy. Thrusts up and up, again and again, unrelenting in his pulses and its pouring lava into the man's body and he feels like he's being torn apart in the _best way,_

 

" Almost there, Arthur, _almost-_ you're doing so good- "

 

It's all it takes. He leans back and growls a loud, strained moan into the air as the enflamed petals gather in his abdomen, the ember-laced vines snapping in his stomach, and he goes still and _comes._ White dripping down Charles' chest but he doesn't seem to care, only gasps softly and shakes in Arthur's tight grasp, muttering breathless praise,

 

" Oh, God, you came _untouched, Arthur._ **Fuck-** "

 

He's trembling, _shaking,_ and Arthur gathers the rest of his strength to _hold him._ Runs nails appreciatively up his spine and feeling him _shudder_ with it, thrusts breaking into a desperate stutter that the cowboy manages to press down into- Charles' grip suddenly tightens _hard_ and he lifts up from the cot, briefly holding them both weightless as he gives a broken moan and _comes deep_. Slowly he eases them back to the bed, falling heavy into it, and the two are left to pant and trade lazy, sweet kisses. Beautiful. _Gentle._ And they look into each other's eyes like they were worth everything in the world and Arthur gives a grin mirrored by Charles, laughing softly into the quiet space,

 

" Christ, Charles, that was damn good. Where'd you learn that? "

 

It pleases him to see the man's cheeks red beneath the dark of his skin, for once his gaze flickering away, as he shrugs and mutters softly,

 

" I didn't. Was just... I just wanted to please you. "

 

Arthur hummed softly at that, kissing them both back into each other's spaces, before they decide to clean up. Charles helps him off his seat, carefully holding him up as his legs threaten to give out with their cramps. Arthur manages to fumble for the extra cloth on the bedside, carefully wiping his own cum off the other's skin. Wipes him down until his hands stop shaking and Charles delicately takes the cloth from him, pressing a kiss to each of his hands, before tending to him. Firm, gentle strokes up and down his body, soothing him into easiness again-

Carefully teases cum out of Arthur, murmuring apologies under a smile at the muttered, grumbled complaints the other sneered at the feeling,

 

" Wipe that smirk off your face, Smith. "

 

" Of course, sweetheart. "

 

Arthur can't deny the flush to his cheeks at the pet name. Carefully, they maneuver themselves back onto the cot, delicately pulling on loose clothes scattered around- check Charles bandages and are pleased to find they've held despite the stress and sweat and no wound had reopened. They settled together, Arthur propped against the metal frame, Charles' arms wrapped around his waist and pillowing his head on his chest, rubbing gently at the fatigued muscles with steady thumbs. It relaxes the cowboy far more than he expected, eyes slipping closed quickly as he gently combed through the ebony tresses of his partner's hair. 

Soothing each other into a lovely cocoon of warmth and affection, trading gentle and sweet kisses until they both fall into slumber wrapped into one another's arms.

The next morning when Abigail walks in on them, she is careful to avoid waking them and instead tip-toes back out of the room, locking the door behind her to ensure their privacy.

They both deserved it, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aye, have fun with this kids.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " Charles... about what happened... What do you want? From it? From me? "
> 
> Manages to spit the words out, soft and quiet, and feels the fingers against the muscle caps of his shoulders gentle but never pause. Continue to knead, rhythmic motions it seemed they were both lost in the comfort of, and Arthur gives the other man time to pick through his thoughts. Knows he needs the time, just as he himself needs it. Knows to be patient, even if immediate rejection is what he would prefer over one mulled. But he knows that the lull is giving Charles time to speak in that way he always does- painfully sincere, truthful, hiding nothing, and Arthur can at least take comfort that the man won't say something that isn't untrue. But he is a touch surprised when the question is gently turned back his way with a murmur,
> 
> " What do _you_ want? "

He knew, he _knew_ it was a mistake. It didn't sound right from start to finish, everything about it was _wrong._ But what did Dutch care? _What did Dutch care? _And wasn't that the whole thing? The fact that he fucking  _didn't._ Didn't care that the tip came from the circus-freak of a man, Angelo Bronte. The slippery snake of a creature who'd wormed his tongue into Dutch's ear, played them all like fiddles. Why had he even been an option to trust? How could his word ever be considered truth? To be of solid fact and statement? Since when would a man like him, a man who had sent he and John out to crawl through a _graveyard_ to do his dirty work just as the police descended on the place, ever want to _help them?_  
  
That was just it- he _didn't._  
  
And when he could only scrounge a handful of dollars from the trolley station's lockbox as what felt like the entirety of Saint Denis' police force swarmed them, all Arthur felt was _rage_ that the man he'd known for 20 years had placed the word of an _stranger_ over the word of the man he called his  _son_.  
  
He's fuming, _fuming,_ and the smoke in his lungs spews forth in the spit of his words. The whiplash of his gloved fingers shuffling through the whole fifteen dollars they'd earned from their horrendous plan, bogged down in the swamps, dirtied and dusted and exhausted. Tosses the money into Dutch's face with perhaps a bit more spite than he'd wished to express, but he didn't regret it. Felt good to allow his sarcasm to slide off his tongue, an old friend he hadn't been visited by in a long while. It felt, in some ways, _freeing._ To have a moment, a moment, where he can vent his frustrations in the vulnerable moment when there is a bare _possibility_ that Dutch will _hear him._  
  
It never truly happens, because the black-winged savior he used to know is no longer who rides away with Lenny back to camp, sore and licking their wounds like beaten hounds.  
  
He remains. Mounts the beauty of his stead, takes comfort in the rhythm of its shuddering breaths having followed them loyally all the way out into the bayou. The only one _loyal_ around, these days, he thought with a pinch of spice and a whole lot of _misery._ A magnificent beast, and Arthur takes an according time to sprinkle praise over the flicking, alert ears, calloused palms rubbing gentle across the velveteen skin of its neck. Part of it is to soothe the heaving creature and partly to settle himself, his own thoughts and feelings, and work through the myriad of cracks and pits in himself. Just for a moment, he hunches over the back of his horse and closes his eyes, _breathing.  
_  
_In and out._  
  
Focuses on the dull, throbbing pain along the line of his spine from where he'd hit the bottom of the upturned trolley, all weight pressured onto his neck. Carefully prods with searching fingers, delighting that aside from the sharp aches, there doesn't feel to be anything broken or out of place. Briefly, Arthur wonders, _toys_ , with the question of what _Charles_  would've done if he had truly been injured. Would he take care of the cowboy? Yes. That, he could answer without a doubt. It was simply what the shadow of a man did, his presence bringing along a sense of _being_  that was soothing in of itself. Pitch eyes warm, twinkling crystals of worry in the gleam of their gaze whenever Arthur came back bloodied or cut from a particularly _rough_ journey out of camp. Calloused hands softened and _gentle_ in their appraisals, prodding but never _pushing_. Let him keep his space, what little of it he could _selfishly_ declare as his own.  
  
_It's not selfish_ , Charles had mentioned once, when he had been the one curled up in Arthur's cot, bandaged and burnt. One of their late-night conversations that week had turned into sensitivities, but it was something they both collapsed freely into feeling. It was rare to get such moments of clarity, of getting the _weight_ off your chest, and the two had no difficulty tossing back-and-forth their own worries and concerns. And those dark eyes had _sparked_ , flickering with the glow of candlelight in their pits, when Arthur had offhandedly procured that he didn't deserve any time to himself with the way the gang was going to _shit._  
  
He'd been taken aback, perhaps, at the conviction in the other man's voice, the sharpness of the words over his tongue like a lash. One he drank in _greedily_ , just once. To wade through the pools of self-conscious, smothered desires and confidence in his heart to allow this single dewdrop caress his unworthy palms.  
  
But he knew: that was just _Charles_ , a man who... _cared_  about him, he daresay. And someone that Arthur found his own heart seemed to follow like a dog free and _attached-_  
  
And as he gently convinced his stead to begin the long, self-suffering journey back to their swamp-bowel of a standing camp, his thoughts took a _trickle_ with the heat of his sweat delicately dripping down the length of his back beneath his shirt. Thought of _that night_ , only a few ebonies ago, when they'd come _together._ And Arthur found that he was, for once, grateful for the humid heat of the muddied air for as he passed a simple bystander a'wandering on their own way, he was able to pass off the heady flush rounding in the apples of his cheeks to simple rash from the bake of the sun. Didn't allow him to betray his thoughts, the _imagination_ , the very real, very potent _memory_ of confident hands, stranger's hands, splaying across his skin in deep caresses. The bruises curled along the juts of his hips had yet to fade completely and he found himself  _enamored_ with the vision of Charles' fingertips still imprinted into himself-  
  
Ah, _fuck._ Better reigns those pesky thoughts in, unruly stud it was.  
  
But as he passed into greener pastures, Arthur's thoughts once more turned and turmoiled like fish caught in a barrel, fluttering slick and panicked beneath the film of dirty water. What exactly _were they now?_ What had that night _made them?_  When each had awakened, there had a crystal-clear moment where they realized the _gravity_ of what they'd done, what they'd _indulged in._ But when Charles peered at him, skin glowing beneath the gentle press of sunshine through the white-paned windows, he saw _no fear._ No regret. And the kiss pressed into Arthur's knuckles seemed testimony of all the words they _wanted to say_ , but couldn't get out, for one reason or another. Hovering in presence, unsure whether to move closer or move away- either way, a direction would seal _this_ , whatever _this_ was. And it had been the stag who had made the decision, had lifted his hand to grasp at the edge of the other's cheekbone and pull closer across the pillow, lips meeting soft and hesitant. Expecting a wrath of fiery flames to descend on them both.  
  
But none came.  
  
It had just been them sharing affectionate warm, tender and foolish, both by body and by heart.   
  
There hadn't been time to further _question._ To truly discuss what they now were, not when Dutch's voice spewed loud and clear across the hallway for him to _hurry and get over here._ And he'd gone, slinking out of his own room and feeling like a home wreaking _whore_ attempting to escape before the house matriarch could discover his sins. But, quite honestly, Arthur Morgan wasn't known to be a religious man nor was he one to concern himself with who others slept with behind closed doors, so for a fragment of a moment, he felt some kind of childish, petulant _pride_ in his secret. And in the fuzzied tenderness it bloomed in his chest, burning flowers now soft-petaled and dew-pearled, vines having relaxed from their choking hold into something winding _steady_ around his spine, kept him _upright._  
  
Lord knows he needed the added support right now.  
  
He was less angry by the time he reached camp, passing a meandering wave of lackluster energy to Javier waiting at the dilapidated stone gateway, receiving a shift of repeater in an edged direction before him, dark eyes twisted into something akin to sympathy. It was clear Dutch had already returned to camp with news of their  _colossal failure,_ and that was made even more apparent by the leaning figure of red-buttoned presence up against one of the cracked, moss-poisoned columns of the main house. Watching, _waiting_ , sunlight a sweet glisten over the skin he'd mapped out only a few nights before- there were still bandages wrapped around his hands, but otherwise, Charles had healed well from his ordeal. There was something wholly _comforting_ to see the man here, as uninjured as he can manage to be. To see him waiting there, muscles tensing as Arthur neared in preparation to meet him- it brought forth a flood of emotion at the unintended, unconscious _intimacy_ of the act. Had him think of all the ways, all the _damn easy ways_  it could all be taken from him.  
  
Soured his lips into a thin line, jaw clenched shut tight and aching, and the look Charles cast upon him was knowing. Of course, how could anyone not? Know of the wonderful _activities_ he'd been up to that afternoon, chasing after false tips and fantasies.  _Ridiculous._ He really was turning into the errand boy. But there was something special to see the man meet his gaze, black searching for blue and not withdrawing until he obeyed the unspoken request to lock, and they share a gaze full of energy and understanding.  
  
It's nice not to have to fumble with his words, his vocabulary, to get his feelings across.  
  
Charles knew him well enough now to understand. There is a tilt to his head and Arthur finds himself tracing the delicate shifting of the shaded veil that fell casually across the man's broad shoulders, watching in the mesmerized, singular shifting of every strand with every breath. An artist's dream and folly, to wish to capture every single detail of it, and yet it didn't quell itself in his stomach. Had _yet to be sated._ And he wondered if it ever would be.  


 

" You want to come huntin' with me? "

 

Arthur didn't need a further explanation, could hear it in the placating, gentle tone of voice the other used like he was convincing a feral coyote to let go of his satchel. Offering an _out_ for the energy that still thrummed beneath his skin, teethed on his veins, and he was more than grateful for the other's insight. He manages to nod, casually hiding his face from the other with the downward tilt of the lip of his hat, and makes an aimless gesture to the air: _get your things_. And Charles moves without further prompting, silent-footed in such a graceful way with the muscle cording his figure and something about the simplicity of it makes it _art_ and Arthur's fingers are twitching where they hook into the edge of his leather belt, _itching._ The air of camp is somber, _quiet,_ and the heat of the day swelters across their backs and the pressure of it is just like the one at the back of his skull, reminding him over and over and over again that they were _running out of time._

To _exist_ , at least in this way.

There was a _warmth,_ an _affinity_ , between the two as they ready their horses, watching each other's hands as they fiddled with the leather of their saddle straps, fidgeting with their satchels. A magnetic pull it felt like between them, an undercurrent of throbbing in the space, just waiting to be broken. Javier mildly bids them farewell, a floating voice at their backs as they trot leisurely out beneath the speckle of the shade like passing water over them, sunlight dappled through the foliage. It is a pleasant ride and the easy companionship lulls Arthur into a sense of security, of  _simplicity_ he hadn't felt in a long time. Up and out of the sticky air, clogged with muddied scents, and into cleaner air- past the dusty remains of Rhodes, a town he never wanted to step foot in again. Back beneath the blue skies where the trees ran clear and sweet, grass thick and lush, and he allowed himself a few moments to appreciate it. To wonder how much longer he had to witness it. To wonder how much longer _it_ would witness _him._

Up the river, trickles pleasant to the ear, and Arthur has found most all of his tension had drained away with the mere steady presence of Charles alongside him and the quiet relaxation into his thoughts and the sound of hoofbeats a drum in his chest. There is an easiness to the way they stop a ways off the beaten path, pausing in a dip through the trees, unseen and unheard, and it was a perfect place for their camp. Clambering down to the pebbled waterbed, he hitched his horse up against the rocks, and delighted in simply watching Charles _move._ His blue short was a lost cause- he'd changed into a burgundy button-up, showed off the unmistakable strength of the muscles in his arms, and for a moment Arthur wondered how good a _wine_ he'd taste. Probably beautiful, bittersweet and chocolate at the back of the tongue, and although he wasn't much of a wine-drinker, the concept had his saliva pooling in his mouth. Embarrassing, but he can't find it in himself to care, not when the other man turns towards him and _pauses_ , hovers, as they meet eyes.

It's only a short pause before Charles is moving forward, forever the confident and self-assured one and a comforting shadow that Arthur finds himself paling alongside. But it's not an unpleasant feeling, not exactly. Just one he feels he needs to get used to, just like he'd had that night they'd shared. This, this is _familiar_ , when hands curl around the curves of his biceps through his shirt, a bare and gentle press that give him every opportunity to flee, to _reject_. Just enough to keep him steady, keep him _present,_ and he's lost in the expanse of the dark eyes coming closer to him- rising to meet without fear and the sweet press of their lips together does not strike him down with terror. It is _gratifying,_ to feel the rustle of Charles' breath against his face, carefully trading soft pushes and pulls between them, and the flowers in his chest bloom like they've just been given the most succulent sunshine they've had in a long while. Vines _shiver_ in his stomach, leaves brushing against his stomach like butterflies, and he is struck with the feeling of how _foolish_ and _young_ he feels, like this.

When they part, it is Arthur that rests their foreheads together beneath the brim of his hat, delighting in the steady press he feels back, and does not feel shy in the slightest when his hands find purchase on the grooves of Charles' hips and _hold._ Shares their space, unspoken emotion between them, until words are softly spoken like the relaxed languid roll of the river beside them,

 

" You okay? "

 

Forever one to be _checking in_ on him, it makes Arthur huff out a soft semblance of an amused laugh, humming in the back of his throat. Nods once, twice, careful not to dislodge the feel of the other's skin from his own,

 

" At the moment, all's well. 'Cause you're here. "

 

What is meant to be a passing comment suddenly feels much more intimate once it's off his chest and spilling off his tongue, like he's damn near confessed, and the feeling of birds fluttering off his shoulders is both immensely gratifying and terribly painful. But Charles only seems to meld into it, laughing gravel against his lips when they press together again, and speaks quietly,

 

" I'm glad to be of service, Mr. Morgan. Sit with me for a bit? "

 

Arthur is powerless to say anything else other than an _absolutely._ Jesus, he's really wrapped tight, isn't he? But he finds that he doesn't mind, not in the slightest. Not with Charles, not with a man like him. And although his relationship with Mary had been true and genuine, he finds it tatters and pales in comparison to the immense gravity of _this._ All-encompassing, warm and a steadiness that keeps him from faltering, keeps him from _straying_ into the darker, deeper parts of himself. Doesn't feel the need to hide or flee and that is quite the incredible improvement compared to how he'd felt when he'd said his final goodbyes to Mary in Saint Denis, walking her to the train station and watching her fade away into the past of what he had been. All the years he'd _wasted,_ gone like that, leaving behind a sore and tender heart that wasn't as nearly painful as he'd expected it to feel. Because he had _Charles,_ forever looking out for him because lord knows he wasn't the best at taking care of himself sometimes (most of the time). 

_You alright, Arthur?_

It was incredible really, how well the huntsman had trapped his prey so easily, so _quickly,_ beneath the press of his boot. Had captured Arthur in the night just as he was coming back, Charles a silhouette of a guard, and even in the cover of the darkness had _seen._ Had _known,_ some way or another, that his friend was _hurting_. And the simple fact he'd _asked at all_  about Arthur's state had felt like he was a drowning man just thrown a lifeline, grasping at it for dear life as he coordinated his limbs to start _swimming again._

_Just fine, Charles. Just fine._

And that had been the truth.

Now, settled against the ground with Charles pressed against his flank, feeling the rhythm of his breathing match his, it couldn't be more real and he allows himself _this._ Just this, for now. One or some moments of tranquility, of peace and _quiet_ , where he can simply _be_ without any responsibilities or tasks weighing him down like muddied boots. Moments run by and he can no longer tell the time, not that he really _wants to_. Arthur's in no rush to end this, not yet-

 

" Thought you said we was goin' huntin'? Not much gettin' done just sitting here. "

 

\- and it would appear Charles isn't either-

 

" ... We have time. "

 

Almost haltingly started, but once spoken, it was like suave velvet off his tongue and Arthur feels himself smile, wide and bright, and chuckle lightly at the whole ordeal. It would seem he wasn't the _only_ one wrapped up and the thought kept his grin in place when he turned towards the other, found Charles already looking back with amusement squinting his eyes and curling his lips that he moves forward to meet. _Meet,_ again and again. His thumbs find the side of Charles' jaw, gently stroking the rippled expanse of the scar running jagged through his stubble, and finds resentment in that the other had been injured and yet _relief_ that he was not _perfect._ With Mary, he always felt _less._ Far too aware of his brokenness, his scars, his ugliness, how painfully he was an _outlaw_ by nature. But with Charles? Both of them were well aware of the other, had fought side-by-side many times, watched each other be covered in crimson again and again and _did not shy away._ Did not ask to be different, just asked to _be,_ and it was immensely gratifying. 

There are fingers sliding against the back of his skull, pads pressing gently into the delicate skin beneath the ridge, and Arthur can't help the brief _wince_ at the feeling of the soreness being prodded again. It prompts Charles to pause and lean away, gaze searching, while he desperately tries to chase those lips again- is held back and _sighs,_ just barely holding back a surprisingly childish whimper for a man such as _Arthur Morgan._ There is clear question in those eyes and he deigns he may as well be truthful, if not anything else,

 

" Fell in the trolley, got banged up a bit. Nothin' serious. "

 

Charles watches him closely, _knows_ to watch him, for the stag was quite the master at masking his own pains in favor of _powering through_. Like he didn't deserve even the slightest bit of pity, of sympathy, of _help,_ that he wasn't worthy of any of it and had convinced himself into handling everything _alone._ And Arthur can only hang limply when the other hums accusingly, keeps him still and obedient as there is a shifting along the rocks. Feels Charles settle in at his back, legs bracketing his thighs, as gentle hands coax his head to fall onto his chin and _fall open_. Vulnerable. And then there are pressured motions dug into the muscle and tendon of the back of his neck, circular kneading motions that he falls victim to _far too easily._ How long had it been? Since he'd been touched so _thoughtfully_? Honestly, years ago, not counting the few nights ago spent with the very man working at making his entire body fall boneless with pleasure and relaxation. And it brings very vivid memory of it to mind and Arthur shifts uncomfortably against the pebbles, fiddles with his hands in his lap, and attempts to coordinate his thoughts into something understandable, _expressional,_ and finds Charles has made it very, very easy for him. No need to look him in the eye. Safety in having his gaze turned to watch the water lapping a few feet from them, drawing strength from its forever presence,

 

" Charles... about what happened... What do you want? From it? From me? "

 

Manages to spit the words out, soft and quiet, and feels the fingers against the muscle caps of his shoulders gentle but never pause. Continue to knead, rhythmic motions it seemed they were both lost in the comfort of, and Arthur gives the other man time to pick through his thoughts. Knows he needs the time, just as he himself needs it. Knows to be _patient,_ even if immediate rejection is what he would prefer over one mulled. But he knows that the lull is giving Charles time to speak in that way he always does- painfully sincere, truthful, hiding nothing, and Arthur can at least take comfort that the man won't say something that isn't untrue. But he is a touch surprised when the question is gently turned back his way with a murmur,

 

" What do _you_ want? "

 

His brow furrows and for a moment, something indignant flares in his chest because _fuck,_ why is Charles making this _difficult_ for him? Harder for them _both?_ Surely, this had been nothing but- no, no. He stops the thought before it can fully come to fruition, wrestles tooth and nail with the self-loathing deep in his heart, to push away the idea that what they'd done and were doing now was done simply because they were _available._ This was something more, much more than something so trivial, so mundane, so _unfeeling._ The snap through his teeth is softened a touch with that knowledge,

 

" Well _shit Charles,_ I'm askin' _you._ What do _you want from me?_ From this? I don't- "

 

A deep breath in, leaning his head back a bit as though he was praying to whatever gods were up there to help him, before staring back down at his hands again and continuing,

 

" You gotta understand, Charles, I'm long broken. 'M gettin' older, hell, I was always ugly. Don't know how much of a heart I've got left here in this chest, just enough to keep me alive and maybe that's it, I don't know. It- I feel- _God,_ I don't know. I feel a fool all over again, but for _you._ Maybe that sounds stupid, not quite sure. You make me... "

 

A helpless shrug, an open gesture with his airs into the air, pleading with the riverside to _understand,_

 

" Feel better, in a lot a' ways. It's... comforting, to be with you, in a way I ain't felt in a long, long time. Hell, if we're bein' honest, I've been attracted to you for months. A long time and when I went to see Mary, she asked me to  _stay._ And all I kept thinkin' 'bout was you. And I'm not sayin' this because you're some replacement for her, I swear you ain't, I don't mean it that way. I'm just... tryin' to say that you mean a whole lot to me, and I don't want... _this_ to ever end in a way that means I have to lose you. I don't want to lose you, not like that. So, if you don't want us to be anythin' more than friends, you gotta tell me now. I don't want to be... like that again. Guess I'm just- "

 

_Scared._ The word sits at the tip of Arthur's tongue and he just can't spit it out so he swallows it back, voice graveled and dark, lilting in his partial confession. Charles' fingers have stopped moving, but they haven't left his body, and he can't decide whether that's a good or bad sign at this point with him. Suspended in the air, everything else around them moving but _them._ Those fingers dip deep into his shoulders again, slowly turn him just as the other man shifts to settle so they're facing one another- well, he can tell Charles is looking at him, but his own eyes remain stubbornly at his hands knotted together between his legs. Feels like a schoolboy. Feels _stupid_ all over again. Doesn't look up, grateful the huntsman doesn't pressure him to, but lord he doesn't think he would've been able to hold the gaze anyway when he starts speaking,

 

" _Arthur._ Before we go any further, I want to tell you that you are your own worst critic. You make yourself out to be a villain when you aren't, and don't bother to fight me on it. You're not old, you're not ugly, you're not _broken._ You've had a hard time of it and there are bound to be scars along the way, it's the way of the world, and you just gotta keep movin' forward. Hell, just _telling me_ all this is strides along from where you were last. "

 

He takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment as though he's collecting himself, and Arthur braces like he's expecting a physical blow,

 

" I feel... a lot for you. More than I've ever felt before for _anyone,_ and I don't get attached easily. But, with you, I'm so very attached... a lot. This is all new to me too but I don't want to stop it, Arthur. I want to be at your side, wherever you go, for as long as you'll have me. I'm _happy_ wherever you are, and that's a lot to be given our life. No matter what happens... what we decide to be, you'll never lose me. I meant what I said that day. I just want you and always you, Arthur. And that's not changing, I can promise you that. It's up to you. Whatever you want, I'll do. Whatever you want me to be for you, I'll be. "

 

Fuck, _fuck._ The vines are choking him again, spindly snakes curling painfully into knots in his stomach, stressing and _choking,_ setting all his nerves alight again. Is he gasping? He can't tell, all he can hear is his own heartbeat thundering harder in his ears with everyone word the man says. The flowers are _embers again,_ burning deep beneath his ribcage, and every breath feels like he's spewing charcoaled smoke all over again, singing his throat from the inside out. _Christ,_ what's he supposed to say to that? This declaration? It's something he'd never thought he'd hear Charles say, not in his lifetime, and certainly not to _him._

_A beat._

**Another.**

Arthur is paralyzed in place, torn between the desperate need to see what expression is on the other's face, and to avoid it entirely. Maybe it would help, maybe it wouldn't. At this point, it was looking a lot more like the _latter._ He is in equal parts relieved and in excruciating pain, each snag of his heart like rasping his tongue over barbed wire. He's never felt this vulnerable before, not even when he was melted with Charles' body a few nights prior. This was _different_. Not the same and _shit,_ he'll never be able to look into the other's eye and not think of this moment, ever again, regardless of what they become. 

Weighs his options- Charles lets him.

Decides.

Manages to raise his head, search for the other's gaze, and immediately regrets it because of the depth-defying _swoop_ that pummels his abdomen like a punch, heartbeat fluttering desperately like a bird caught in a cage far too small for it. The flowers are burning, _burning in his chest,_ at the absolute _pleading_ that is plastered all over Charles' face. Arthur's never seen him look so... small. Like he's waiting for an execution sentence, waiting to be turned away, waiting to be _rejected himself._ He looks desperate, _searching,_ and he's not quite sure what the man sees in him and probably never will, but all he wants to do is wipe that terrified look off his face. The need to comfort, to _soothe,_ boils deep in Arthur's veins and his fingers are reaching forward before he's even aware of it, meets Charles' halfway. They're grabbing at each other, like handling fragile glass, and _hold._ Caught in one another's embrace, feeling the minute and subtle shakes in their respective bodies, and there is something about the open _vulnerability_ of themselves, that they're letting the other _see,_ seems to tie them together more than anything else that could be said.

When Arthur turns, it is he who is searching for the other this time, and Charles indulges him with a deep, emotional kiss that devours the rest of his resolve and his pains. Let's the other take it all, _anything and everything_ from him, and trusts him with the rest of his shriveled, scarred heart. Something about it, the other wants, and Arthur has found he can't really deny Charles much of anything anymore. The swipe of tongue against his lips is immensely welcome, groaning softly in the back of his throat when the huntsman uses one hand to grasp the edge of his jaw and the other to wind an arm around his back, pulling them _together._ Pressed together from lips to belt, lost in the experience of _each other,_ and the newfound realization that _it was okay._ It was _okay_ for them to be like this because they both had the same burning flowers and choking vines and fluttery birds inside them that set alight at the simplest vision or presence of the other, and that's all they need.

Searching for more, _more..._

Now that he's had a taste, Arthur finds he wants it _all,_ and he pulls back just enough to whisper,

 

" I want everythin', Charles,  _everythin'_ you have to offer. Want all of it. "

 

His voice is a low, husky growl and Charles bares his teeth against his lips, presses hard and _hungry_ into him again, pulling at his suddenly very-overdressed body, and murmurs words that ring in his ears,

 

" Is that a _**challenge** , _cowboy? I can work with that. "

 

There is a lilt to the voice that has Arthur's spine shivering beneath the feeling of a palm working its way over the knobs of his vertebrae, counting each spindle with a caressing _press_ that has his mouth opening on a _gasp,_ letting Charles' tongue work its way in over his teeth. Accepts it, _bends to it, easily,_ and there is a heady heat pooling in his abdomen again when wandering fingers untuck his shirt from his jeans, slide up the satin of his muscles, tracing wild patterns. It makes him feel incredibly  _sensitive,_ incredibly _hot,_ and he arches into the touches against him, insists them into being  _harder, rougher-_

Now _this_ is something he remembers. Something he understands much, much better.

But the very real recognition that they're out in the open is pulled to the forefront of his mind when his fingers tangle into Charles' hair and _pull_ and the man whimpers a growl into his mouth. Fists his hand into the cloth where the top button on the man is fastened, brushing his knuckles over the bare skin beneath, and murmurs quiet,

 

" Charles... shouldn't be doin' this out here- "

" Get in the tent, then. "

 

Those words might've sounded authoritative- hell, they _did,_ but there was an edge of desperation and passion and _pleading_ in the man's tone and Arthur  _melts_ to his will immediately. Lets himself be pulled up, passing a glance to their horses and near laughing at the way they seemed _so very busy_ with the grass at the edge of the riverbed, like they were attempting to give their two lovestruck idiot riders a chance to be _alone_ in _togetherness._ He might've been able to snap a joke if Charles hadn't taken that exact moment to near shove him into their pitched tent, tripping him onto his back, and descending between his legs on him with feverish twitches in his fingers. Covered in a flurry of kisses and bites, Arthur distantly wonders if the other is doing this to make up for when he'd been too injured to fully  _utilize himself_ the first time, or if he was trying to show Arthur how much he _felt for him-  
_  
In the barest moment when Charles pulled back to allow them both to catch their breaths, pressed together from knee to chest, he gets a moment where he's hit square in the chest by the _adoration_ in those dark eyes, liquid darkness alight with passion and _softness_... he thinks it's the latter. He spreads his legs a bit, allows Charles to settle perfectly between them, and takes his time rolling his fingertips through the man's hair, pressing deep into his throat to coax him into devouring, deep kisses. Feels the fluttering, pounding heartbeat of the other match his own and _smiles_ into the unintended sweetness of it. How _honest_ the other is, even in a moment like this. As Charles' fingers pull his shirt up his chest, fingers splaying over his abdomen, Arthur wiggles his fingertips into the open gap of the other's, thumbs working over the man's collarbones and digging _deep_ into the muscle, delighting in the quiet _moan_ that vibrates against his mouth.

They're already panting, already _breathless,_ but they don't care, _don't care-_

The want is warm and slick in his stomach like whiskey but stronger, _much stronger,_ and he stumbles to unbutton all of Charles' shirt as fast as he can manage. Finds that the huntsman is just as impatient at times like this, leaning back to near rip it off his body and toss it to the side. Lets Arthur's fingertips travel and trail down his body, leaning back and allowing the other to have a _journey_ with him in the daylight, thumbing the necklace hanging from his neck, gently scrapping his muscles with teasing fingernails, tenderly brushing the remains of the burns wound around the other's lower stomach. Pink-red and _stark_ against the deepness of Charles' skin, testimony to his cheating of very serious injury, and the thought kindles some sweet butterfly's flame in his chest-

Squirms, _leans up,_ and presses kisses down the man's front, delighting in the quiet gasps and soft moans Charles grumbles at every touch. The overwhelming need to _please_ is burning Arthur's fingertips as they move, delicately biting and sucking marks into the skin, tongue toying gently along the smoothness of him,  _relishing_ in the tightening of fingers in his hair when he tenders sucks a nipple, fondling the other with teasing circles. Keeps going, _lower,_ and there is a _heat_ in those dark eyes when he looks up, convinces Charles to sit down in front of him so he can kiss down his abdomen, appreciating the pure coiling of _muscle_ arching beneath his lips. 

Lower, _lower, not yet-_

Arthur's hands try not to _tremble_ when they reach for the belt in front of his face, gaze flickering up to where Charles was leaning back and resting on his arms, letting the stag do _anything_ and _everything_ to him. It's a powerful position to be put in, makes the sweet flame in his heart jump and jerk like a teasing breeze had curled around it. Question, _asking permission,_ and the other man is nodding before he can even say anything. Well... this was a _new position_ for him, in this scenario. It was a _lot,_ but there was a newfound strength itching at his fingertips this time, an unspoiled _confidence_ he'd managed to leech off of his partner from last time. Managed to keep it within him, keep himself moving, and it gives him the thoughts that he had. Doubted Charles would deny them, but it was going to be an _experience,_ nonetheless.

Deftly undoes the buckle, other hand coming forth _pressuring_ into the crease of the other's thigh, delighting in the quiet moan and the shiver of strong thighs around him as his fingers traced the cock beneath him into hardness, coaxing in _just the right ways,_ and it has Charles smiling, almost amused, down at him. How quick he got the hang of this, huh? Well, Arthur wasn't _inexperienced,_ per say, and when the artist had a design... he sure did like to tease it out, map the penciled lines, smudge the charcoal across the paper of his canvas. And Charles just so happened to be his canvas at the moment.

Fingers sink, _inside,_ and Arthur finds himself shuddery all over again as thickness fills his palm, both familiar and not. Rasps the edges of his calloused along the sensitive length, the man's knees knocking against his shoulders when he _leans forward,_ coaxes it out of the other's jeans. Examines now, in the light, and can't hold back a breathy _whimper_ at the pure sight before him, one he hadn't properly been able to capture at night. Beautiful, honestly, if you can imagine someone else's cock being that- but with Charles, it sure as hell was. _Everything_ about him was beautiful and Arthur almost choked a nervous laugh out of his throat at the thought of how goddamn a _fool he was_ for the other man. Takes a moment to simply  _stroke,_ swiping at crystalline-welling liquid at the tip, circling the sensitive head under his thumb and wringing quiet _gasps-_

Gathers himself, his _resolve -_

Waits for a moment for Charles' eyes to slip shut before he's moving forward, tongue _tentative,_ lapping at the droplets dripping along the side, and freezing for a moment at the stuttered _gasp_ that echoed above his head. Almost pulled back, _prepared to,_ when there are fingers in his hair, nails scratching into his scalp, and feels himself fill to full hardness in his own pants at the open-mouthed _moan,_

 

" Oh, _sunshine._ Please, you don't have to. "

 

Well shit, now Arthur _absolutely had to._ Heat coils hard and throbbing in his stomach when he _keeps going,_ gently fits his lips around the sensitive head, careful of his teeth. Manages to coil his tongue like an interested _snake, slithering_ against the _throbbing skin,_ but it's all he can get himself to do on his own, like this. But Charles doesn't seem to mind the meagerness of it, fingers clenching and unclenching in spasms against his skull- suddenly, thumbs are pressing into the back of his neck, fingers splayed against his throat, and is caught a little by  _surprise_ at the way they _gently press,_ coaxing him further down. Opens his mouth, finds himself not in the slightest disgusted or afraid, and takes a moment to feel _pride_ in himself at how there is no inclination to gag when the length slides to the back of his tongue and _holds there._ Quiet gasps above him, his own breathing slowed and steadying through his nose, as Charles so _carefully,_ so _sweetly,_ delicately moves his head up and down, up and down. Slow, _dragging,_ and when Arthur pulls back, he rolls his tongue over the head again and works his muscles into a _suck_ that has the other groaning quietly, 

 

" God, _Arthur,_ you're... _so_... sweet. So good. "

 

Arthur smiles around the cock in his mouth, gaze riveted upon the sweating, debauched vision of Charles hanging over him, mouth ajar and gaze fogged and glassy with _want._ It makes him feel... _desirable,_ in a way he'd only felt with the man, and he's allowed only a moment more before those fingers are tightening and pulling him off. Charles throbs along his tongue as he pulls back, a string of pearled saliva still connecting them, and it's such a pretty picture that Arthur wished he could draw it _immediately._ Still has to sketch Charles, anyway. But he can't hold on to any thought for a long time when the man is descending on him again, hauling him onto his back and letting the other settled between his outstretched legs again. _Gasps_  when hands practically ripped his shirt off his body, lips descending into the delicate skin of his throat and sucking bruises and bites into it. Damn, he's going to have to wear a bandana for _weeks_ with marks like this, but he honestly doesn't care. Imagines himself as the canvas for the other and he delights that Charles would _choose him_ for something so special. 

The flowers in him _shiver_ and _burn_ with red-hot flames when those lips press nips into the skin of his abdomen, catching on honed muscles, and those vines _curl_ around his spine with _hot-cold excitement_ when fingers toy along his skin and dip into his jeans, unabashed and utterly _desiring_ in the strong curl of them around him. Gasps out a broken sound at the tight ring wound around his cock, the _ragged speed_ to which he was stroked into leaking over the thick hair at the base of him, moaning into Charles' mouth when he's pried open for tongue again-

Hot, he's _so hot,_ everything is _burning_  and Arthur is just able to blink his bleary eyes open to search for the other's, finds them watching every twitch of his face closely, _words tumbling,_

 

" _Shit,_ Charles. Can... can we do... what we did last time? "

 

There is a brightness kinder in Charles' gaze at the question, smile full of _sharp teeth_ that drag up the column of his throat, whisper deep and _shuddering_ into his ear,

 

" _Hah-_ yes, please. "

 

Arthur snorts a derisive laugh under his breath at the _pleading,_ gets choked off into _desperation_ when Charles' hands grip _hard and tight_ so suddenly and rippled across his cock, fast and unrelenting, and his hips are jerking against the ground at every stroke, _growls low-_

Feels the other's heat leave him for a moment, opens his eyes to watch the other rummage into their satchels, procures a vial very similar to the one in Arthur's drawer back at Shady Belle, and the simple _vision_ of it has heat pooling at the base of his spine and his cock twitching on his stomach. _Shit,_ he was _so fucking ready._ It feels like sparks are crackling between them when Charles works his own pants off, watching Arthur throwing his suspenders off and tossing his jeans into the back of the tent. The huntsman leans back, _twists_ to deftly close the flaps of the tent with a decisive _swish_ and when he turns back to Arthur, he's caught beneath the predatory glaze. Hands are descending on him again and he rises to meet them, teethes purple into Charles' throat while the other breathed heavy in his ear and dug his fingers into the hips of his hipbones, _pleasant pressure,_ and suddenly his thighs are being lifted up and off the ground, resting on Charles' with his knees up around his hips. It's... a new position, a vulnerable one, but Arthur is not in the slightest  _embarrassed._

Quite the contrary, he feels _desired._

Especially when Charles is near devouring him with every press of lips and tongue, wrapped in one another, _stifling_ and _freeing_ to simply fall, again and again. It is still a... strange feeling, when slicked fingers delicately trace patterns on the backs of his upturned thighs, soothing the shivery muscles- but he is not afraid. Wasn't the first time, either. It feels like less of a _rush_ , this time. Like the deluge of their emotions and feelings having poured out now left them  _explorative,_ made them  _curious_ and _sweet_ in the best of ways. Arthur hums, deep and low in his chest, when those wandering fingers press _right there-_

Stutters into a _gasp_ as a finger sinks into him, swallowed by Charles' mouth against his, sharing shuddering pants. It takes a moment to adjust, but something that was uniquely _Charles_ made him fall lax all the faster, _letting_ the man take anything and everything he wanted. It was _freeing_ to not have to be control. To not have to be Arthur Morgan, Dutch's son and lead enforcer who'd had two pistols strapped to his hips since his birth. He didn't have to be that here. He could just be Arthur Morgan, the artist, the worrier, a man with a golden heart that everyone else could see but _him._

_Freeing._

Feels good when a hand wraps around his cock again at the same time another finger pushes into him, rasping away at the unpleasant burn with softly-cooed sweetness against his tongue and patience in the work-over. Feels his stomach _jerk- fuck-_

 

" _Ugh- Charles- there-_ "

 

Said man heaved a shaky breath, a smile curled into the skin of Arthur's forehead where a soft kiss is placed, his face covered in gentle presses of lips as the other opens him up. Molten heat, erotic and _so hot_ , throbs throughout his body and trying to grasp any of his thoughts is like trying to catch clouds with your bare hands. Impossible and he finds he can't be bothered to try anymore. Just _feeling_ was enough. That was enough- 

Those fingers twisted, _pressed up,_ and wring a series of desperate moans from his mouth when they _don't stop,_ nor does the calloused hand around his length. Pulled apart, again and again, and Arthur is scrambling at the man's shoulders, digging his nails in just under his shoulder blades just like how he remembered- delighting and gasping a smile into the soft noise Charles purrs into his hair. It's enough, it's _enough-_

 

" C'mon, _come here,_ now. "

 

The deft speed to which Charles pulls away and _shifts_ would've been amusing in any other situation but this. Arthur just sees a graceful, magnificent creature hovering over him and just can't manage a joke because his throat is far too choked with _appreciation_ at everything the man is. Fingers _itch, itch, itch,_ reach out to grasp at the curve of the huntsman's biceps, and he's so breathtaken by the vision of the man a silhouette in front of him. There is a peak of daylight streaming from a crack in the tent, glistens over one of Charles' shoulders and burns a halo around his outline, blue-beaded necklace gently, _comfortingly_ swaying against his chest and it's just- _fuck- such a vision-_

Arthur can only manage a soft noise in his chest, mouth opened to  _gasp_ as he threw his head back against the bedroll- Charles', he noted, by smell alone and he turns his head to _breath it in_ as the man _sinks deep_ into him. Slow, careful, and Arthur isn't sure who is the one throbbing because all he can feel is the molten _heat_  pouring into him, pressing _right where he wants it,_ and it leaves him breathless and _shaking._ They're both moaning low in their throats when Charles bottoms out, hips held steady and careful against the backs of his thighs, and they _shake_ with the intensity, the _intimacy,_ of it all. Of _everything_ that they were, sunshine-stroked and _affectionate._ Something neither one had ever imagined they'd feel, not in this lifetime. Not with their lives, their choices. Their decisions. But here they were, despite everything, and the thought alone springs unruly tears into Arthur's eyes, casting a film over the blue-hued green.

Hooks his arms around the back of Charles' neck, feels broad palms capture his legs and _pull up,_ keeping him open and _pliant,_ and those flowers melt in his chest as the man starts to _move._ Easy, slick, smooth- it feels far too _perfect_ , far too _good,_ now that they know each other, their bodies. Now that they've had a taste and have an entire _lifetime left_ to divulge in the rest, starting with this. The tears _fill, overflow,_ and Arthur doesn't even bother to hide them, turns his head to the side and finds himself _surrounded_ by everything that is Charles. Hears the question in the mouth pressed against his cheek, a movement to _stop-_ but Arthur jerks his calves into the other's back and _keeps him moving,_ speaks broken and moaning through the thrusts,

 

" _God,_ Charles, I really- you're really- _fuck, beautiful,_ and I- I just- "

_I never want this to end._

 

Those worried, searching dark eyes are terribly soft in the next instant looking down into him, _twists_ something in his chest at the flattered, gasping smile Charles breaths out, a palm coming up to rest against a stubbled cheek and thumb brushing beneath the spill of tears,

 

" Oh, _Arthur._ If anyone is _beautiful_... it's you. "

 

Lips mouth at his eyelids, sweetly kiss them closed as Charles suddenly shifts his hips back and pressed in _hard,_ a deep _grind_ up and it has him catching on every good spot inside of Arthur until he's only capable of choking out a groan, utterly _blown away._ All he can do is listen to the _shaking_ voice in his ear, pressing _soothes_ into his heart,

 

" You're _everything_ to me. "

 

The slow pace is far more _shattering_ than anything fast, the hard _grinds_ up into his body feeling so _dirty_ and hot, there is slick pulsing from his cock at every push of _passion_ into his skin. The pearled mass might've been embarrassing once, but not now. Not when every one of Arthur's broken gasps and moans seems to let Charles break down all his own defenses, letting _himself_ fall open and vulnerable to the artist's gaze, to his _touch-_

Nails dragging down a spine, shuddering _breaths-_

Desperate, desperate.

Arthur's mouth is pushed into Charles' throat, strained voice into the skin as the beat of the man's necklace against his chest following along a' tempo to their movements, begging for _more._ Begging, _begging,_ for the man to go _faster, harder, please, please,_ ** _please-_**

**Wants** to feel devoured, feel taken apart and put back together again, and Charles is doing a damn good job of it already but he just needs that little bit _more-_ just a little more to fully _feel it all._ But the huntsman keeps his shaky resolve, speeding up only a _touch,_ and delights in capturing every jerky _twitch_ of Arthur's muscles beneath his every touch. How _sensitive_ he is like this, and thinking of how _no one else_ has ever seen the cowboy like this but _him._ Knows he shouldn't feel so proud, so _pleased,_ and yet the feelings are there anyway and unlike a _certain someone,_ he doesn't bother to fight them or pretend they're something else.

Charles was damn well sweet on the fool of a man and every slow _d r a g..._

Every hard _p u l s e..._

Wringing all manner of swears and _desperation_ from Arthur's throat shows that well enough, _good enough._ Especially when those strong thighs bracketing his hips start shaking, _trembling,_ and start to coil _hard_ around his waist. Desperate to keep him close, to keep him _going,_ and Charles has no damn intentions of stopping anytime soon. Not until this tear-stroked, broken man beneath him was satisfied. But he is perhaps a little _selfish,_ desperate to keep this vision of Arthur in his mind for as long as possible, and his hands wrap _just enough_ around the man's cock leaking liquid against his pulsing stomach to keep him _edged-_

Feels Arthur's insides _tremor_ with the stimulation, _not enough-_

 

" Charles, please _, please, I can't-_ I can't _take this- fuckin' hell-_ "

 

And Charles can't deny the shine of those blue eyes peering desperate and _wanton_ on him, feels his own stomach _throb_ in painful desire and his cock _twitch_ in a particularly testy thrust, drawing an open-mouthed moan from the man beneath him. Shifts once, _twice,_ before pausing completely and leaning down to  _devour_ the stubborn, greedy noise Arthur bleats. And Arthur _feels_ more than hears the shuddering _heave_ of breath the man breathes against his lips, voice a deep, growling _plea,_

 

" Hang on- hang on to me, Arthur. "

 

There are _nails_ digging into his skin, running marks all over him, and he can only find heat _blooming_ along the trails left behind as Arthur _marks him, ruins him._ Arthur is powerless to say no to anything the man says at this point, calloused palms running _hot_ up the other's flanks, winding up around the bulk of his body and _holding._ Curled into one another, pressed _tight_ and _yielding._ Charles' hands wind beneath his knees, pulls him up _just that little bit higher-_ and the tip of the man's cock is pressing _right_ into his prostate. A stimulation that had him trying to squirm, but he's held fast, and calms just enough to trade one _clear,_ steady kiss-

And then Charles is gathering the pads of his feet beneath himself, shifts all his weight into the muscles of his legs, and _fucks hard-_

Shit, _shit-_

Now _this_ is what Arthur had been begging for, the heady _slams_ into his body punching moans from his lips, fingers pressing more _bruises_ into his skin just like how he wants. It's incredible, feeling _indulged,_ and he's drunk off the feeling of everything that was _Charles,_ who was gasping and whimpering brokenly into the curve of his throat. Just as _desperate as he was._ The vines are _so tight_ in their wrap around his abdomen, thorns digging _deep_ into his skin, and the flowers are flaming petals that are burning, _burning,_ from the inside out and smoke _pours_ from his open lips as he voices his appreciation for this, _all of this-_

Feels it when Charles begins to have shudders in his biceps, sees it in the wild _glint_ in the foggy, glassy dark eyes-

Arthur can feel it in himself, _everywhere,_ and when he juts his chin up, the man leans down to meet his lips. Deep, _deep,_ tongues twining together in crazed passion-

Can feel that burning feeling throb directly in his cock, feels it in the almost anxiety-inducing rising of fluttery pulses in his abdomen- doesn't even need to say anything. Charles already knows, can probably _feel it,_ and the hands plastered to his skin suddenly dive for his wrists. Pulls them to rest above his head on the ground, fingers interlacing in a _painfully_ intimate gesture. Loses himself to the beaded necklace pulsing against his collarbone, in Charles' lips against him, as the huntsman suddenly stretches his legs out behind him so their entire bodies are pressed together from lips to knees. Overwhelming, _overwhelming,_ the hard, _hard_ thrusts into his body, the slow, insistent _pressure_ inside him, and he's shaking, shaking, when Charles' mouth pulls back just enough to murmur against him,

 

" Come on Arthur, _come on-_ Let me _hear you, please-_ "

 

It's all he needs. Arthur feels his legs lock without his control, abdomen _throbbing,_ and he finds he can't throw his head back like he wants because Charles winds their intertwined hands just behind his skull so he _can't,_ forces him to be face-to-face with the man-

Those petals _burst_ into hummingbirds, vines _snapping,_ as he gets one last look at Charles' open-mouthed smile, elated moans against his lips, dark eyes _watching,_ desperate, _needing to see it-_

Cum ropes up their abdomens, Arthur's moan a growling _plea,_ gasping and _shaking-_

 

" Yes, Arthur, _y-e-e-s-_ "

 

Charles is shaking in his arms, his entire muscled frame _shivering,_ and Arthur hooks his ankles around the small of his back and arches his back so their skin _glides,_ slick with cum and sweat, together again and _again,_

 

" Inside, again, inside- Charles, _good-_ "

 

The huntsman jerks in his arms, eyes falling closed and mouth opening on a _moan,_ fingers almost painfully wound with Arthur's still trapped above his head, and he _feels it-_ burning inside, again, pulsing _hot-_

 

" Sweetheart- _unh-_ oh, _Arthur,_ _fuck-_ "

  


Arthur has never felt _safer_ in the shade of Charles' hair a veil around them, keeping everything else _out_ that wasn't _them._ Soothes murmurs into the man's forehead when it presses against his lips, muscles shuddering under his fingertips like a stressed stead, as they both fall into the need to catch their breaths. Shaky puffs into the air steadying, gathering at least some control over their rabbiting heartbeats- Arthur feels thumbs gently stroke the pulse in his wrists above his head, hums quiet and sated at the intimacy of it. Rests his chin on the top of Charles' head, just for a moment, before the man is shifting and looking up at him- _searching-_

They kiss _easy, sweet_ , and it feels like home. More like a home than either one has had in a long time, if ever.

Cool down together, trading breaths and soft, praising _whispers._ Charles pulls out with a gentle coo to soothe the sensitive burn, watches as Arthur's toes curl lightly at the feeling, and they sit back a bit for just a moment. Just a _moment,_ for Charles to look down and see the beautiful man who'd been beneath him, seeing him flushed pink from his cheeks all the way down his chest. To see the shudders of his muscles, the purpled and blue bruises he'd sucked into his skin, the splatter of opaque thickness up the length of his abdomen. Lets Arthur look up and see the tousled, messy hair of the man he _loved_ , dark skin patchworked with bite marks and sensitive patches, sweat a fine film over his body, Arthur's cum dripping down the divots in the well-honed muscles along his stomach. It's a moment for them both to _appreciate_ the mess they'd been able to make out of the other, something to be _proud of._

Clean-up is sweet, gentle, and Arthur lets the other take care of him first this time, cloth wiping him down free of his exhaustion. Soothes his muscles into relaxation, into pliant satiation, and delicately coax cum out of him- something Charles still seems to _smile at,_ and something the stag grumbles quietly about, tugging on his hair in mock scolding. Struggles up from the ground and takes the cloth from his hands, the huntsman _purring_ at the feeling of Arthur's fingers deftly wiping him clean. They deign not to put their clothes on just yet- relax back against the bedroll, limbs entangled, safe and _happy._ Allow themselves to doze a bit, trading laid-back kisses whenever they were both awake, before deciding that they did indeed need to get some _actual work done-_ for the camp, that is. And Arthur is quite pleased with himself with how _easily_ he can stand, peeking out from their tent to see that they were still, indeed, alone. It's he who leads them into the water of the river, relaxing beneath its cooling pull, and hold one another until their skin is prickled and they've decided themselves _clean enough_ to start moving again.

 

" You're somethin' else, you know that? "

 

Arthur speaks the words against dark knuckles pressed against his lips, eyes rising to see Charles' smile gentle and _sincere,_

 

" So are you. "

 

Deft fingers tuck a lock of blonde hair behind his ear, press one last kiss to each other, before they're pulling their clothes back on. The horses don't seem scandalized, so at least there was that, and his stead looked placidly in his direction when Arthur approached, presses carrots against its lips in apology for any of the _noise._ The horse seemed pleased with the transaction. Together, the two outlaws fled up further into the woods, dark shapes beneath the foliage as they tracked, wandering around the crystalline ponds and wind-swept rocks of the higher country. Once more find  _comfort_ in the _easiness_ that was their togetherness, and neither one could imagine themselves anywhere else but _here._ It's easy work to strike down two does, a mirror to their hunt in the snowy mountains months before that felt so, so long ago. Where Arthur had first looked at Charles and realized that he was going to need to confront his feelings sooner or later, at some point.

And damn glad now that he'd had.

They remain by the riverside for the night, carefully skinning and dividing the downed deer into manageable packets of usefulness, cooking some for themselves before keeping the rest to hand off to Mr. Pearson when they eventually got back to camp. The two settled on their backs, made funny pictures out of the constellations in the crystal-clear sky, told stories and memories, and delighted in their  _comforts._ In the beautiful feeling that was Arthur being able to curl up on Charles' chest when they bedded down and not feel the _fear_ of being walked in on, of being _disturbed._ It was just them and the open world and they could be anything, at least for the night.

The way back is meandering and long, finding every excuse to spend more time out together, though eventually, it would _end_ with Shady Belle's shackled view on the horizon. And just before they can come in sights, Arthur feels fingertips trace the stubble of his cheek, beckon him into turning- meets lips against his, sweet pressure, a _promise._ Remain close for a moment more, gazes _longing_ but _knowing,_ as Charles whispers soft,

 

" I'm with you, Arthur, always. From now until the end, whenever it may be. I'm all yours. "

 

The flutters in his chest feel steadier, feel _good_ this time, as he murmurs back in kind,

 

" And I'm all yours, Charles. "

 

It's enough. It's perfect. The smile they share is gentle, one last look, before they emerge over the rise and meet Lenny's eyes, stuck on guard duty in the swampy, thick sun. Arthur laughs that deep chuckle in his chest at the misery painted over the youth's face, pats his back on his way by, and the boy grumbles good-humoredly at how badly he wanted to get out of _bayou._ Arthur and Charles drop off their packaged meat on Pearson's bench, waving off his pleased compliments and wry commentary of how _long_ they'd been gone out there. Oh well. And the two allowed themselves just a brush, a bare brush, of their fingertips as they turned to leave. Arthur's hand clasped over Charles' shoulder cap, a placid and friendly touch that he tended to do- something others wouldn't find out of the _ordinary,_ but the huntsman can feel just the _gravity_ of how tight those fingers were dipping into him. A message, one he accepted with a small smile and an equally-as-casual farewell. Drags their eyes apart, Charles makes his way past the fire and over to the solitude of the edge of camp, seemingly content to begin work on cutting firewood now.

And Arthur settled on the porch steps, delighting in the pleasant  _aches_ in his body and knowing exactly  _why._ Rolls a smoke between his fingertips, blowing smoke rings and feeling mildly surprised in that they hold well despite the boggy, slick, humidity of the air around them. A truly miserable place, but it was the place for now. And, honestly? As long as Charles was there with him, anywhere would be alright.

He loved him that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this shit is cute.

**Author's Note:**

> don't worry, you'll get your porn in the next chapter, fam.
> 
> this is based off of a camp conversation you can have with charles as a random event where he says he's going to go help some of eagle flies' tribe boys. i wrote this in the way it fit into my personal gameplay- i got the encounter, robbed a stagecoach coming up from blackwater, and came across the burnt-down reform school nearby. plus i thought there aren't enough writings where charles is the one injured so i shoved this in here.
> 
> also this is my favorite pairing.


End file.
